


Gradient Descent

by Whisp



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brief Reference to Past Child Abuse, Derogatory Language, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, M/M, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Serious Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisp/pseuds/Whisp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint was a kid, he rotated through a series of placements. Even at 6 years old, he knew that every family was an elaborate game of tests and illusions.</p><p>Now at 25, long past the time he thought himself too old for the game, Clint abruptly finds reality yanked out from underneath him and try as he might, there’s no secure footing to be found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic requires more of a disclaimer than I usually give. The main character will be dealing with a major mental illness. I am in no way trying to romanticize/make light of this illness. It is a very serious disorder. The way it is portrayed in this fic is in no way representative of a typical case, nor is it typical of the challenges or co-morbidities that patients must face. I have taken the extreme presentations of this illness and used it to write something for entertainment purposes only. I have not meant to offend anyone in any way. Please email me if you’d like to discuss anything further.

When Clint gets back to SHIELD headquarters, he is going to have a word with the staff from recruitment. A nice long chat about the misrepresentation of SHIELD activities.

When he was nineteen, SHIELD had swayed Clint over with romantic notions of espionage and intrigue; shooting bad guys and saving the world. At that point, Clint had been with the circus since he was nine. There had been a time in his young life when he wouldn’t have left it for the world, but years past and disillusioned by dwindling audiences and lacklustre performances, Clint had easily agreed.

Conveniently enough, SHIELD had neglected to mention the long hours spent gathering intel, waiting for shots, and generally being bored out of his mind. The ramshackle safe houses that alternated stifling hot and freezing cold. The bullets that rained down like hail. The sprains, the pulled muscles, the broken bones -

And oh yeah, Clint remembers idly as another fist cracks him across the jaw, the torture. They really should mention the torture.

It’s not that he isn’t prepared. If it’s one thing that SHIELD does right, it’s that they prepare their agents to withstand pain. In his five year tenure, Clint’s been shot, stabbed, starved, electrocuted, drowned, hit by cars, and thrown off buildings. A pair of guys working him over is nothing. He just really would have appreciated the head up before he signed up. So he could have run the other way. Or towards it. Whatever. Clint’s never been one for sane, rational choices.

Out of absolutely everything though, the part that really pisses him off isn’t the loose teeth or the burgeoning concussion. Not the eye currently swelling shut or the brightness of his blood smeared across his captors’ hands. It’s the fact that Clint _doesn’t. fucking. know. anything._ He can’t understand why these idiots thought that grabbing the sniper would give them the location of a level 6 classified base. If Clint is going to be tortured, he at least wants the satisfaction of being able to withhold valuable information. For fuck’s sake, he’s only been at SHIELD for five years. He’s a _field asset_. They don’t tell you jack shit.

Not to mention he must be in the most clichéd interrogation ever staged. For one thing, they’re in an abandoned warehouse. And he‘s being worked over by a pair of thugs while cuffed to a chair. Seriously. Who the fuck actually does that?

He tries telling his tormentors this multiple times. They’re not amused.

So he settles for gritting his teeth and riding out the punches, listening to the faint static of the comm unit hidden in his ear canal. He’s seen their faces, so there‘s zero chance they‘re planning on leaving him alive, but hopefully they’ll take long enough for rescue to come. If they come. He’s been out of range a while now, so there’s no chatter over the comm channel, but he can’t quite quash the faint hope that SHIELD would send a retrieval team, instead of cutting their losses and heading back to base.

In retrospect, Clint thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have mouthed off as much as he did. Because after the third hour of momma jokes, they stop caring as much about the location of the base, and more about making Clint’s life a living hell.

The taller of the two, which Clint has dubbed ‘macho nacho’ guy says something to ‘stuffs his pants in overcompensation’ guy and disappears for an hour. When he comes back, he’s holding a car battery and a knife and a grin like Christmas had arrived early.

Clint takes back his competency remark. It turns out they’re very thorough.

They seem to be playing a game. Who can think of the most creative ways to make him scream. Clint starts the night holding back, biting his lip clean through and starting on his inner cheek after that. It doesn’t last long.

Before the night is over, Clint finds he can barely gather the strength to lift his chin off his chest. His limbs were heavy, his hands no longer feel like his own, all the strength and nimbleness have long since been stripped away. Half his fingers are missing fingernails, the other half are crooked and broken. There’s a slow line of blood meandering from the cut at his temple to the tip of his chin where it drips off steadily.

Hardly able to stay upright, the only reason he’s still in the chair is that he’s cuffed to it, the warm metal now slicked with sweat and blood. The air is permeated with the stench of urine and the distinct smell of charred meat from when they had skinned the flesh off his body in strips, then touched the ends of the battery to the raw wound, laughing as he convulsed.

Clint feels a hand bury itself in the hair at the back of his head and yank back roughly, forcing him to squint up at his captors though the eye not swollen shut. “The co-ordinates?” The taller one asks, like this time will be any different from the rest.

At this point, it’s pretty well established that Clint isn’t going to say fuck all. The question is really more a prelude to more pain than it is any attempt to get valid information. So when Clint refuses to answer, his captor breaks his nose and asks again.

This time, Clint tries to muster up a decent sneer, blood streaming from his nose around a shock of pain, but finds he can’t do much more twitch a lip back, as he’s much more preoccupied with wheezing for air, shallowly through cracked ribs. Distantly, he wonders whether he should be more worried about the amount of blood pouring from his nostrils, but he can’t really bring himself to care.

However, the next time he doesn’t answer, his captor clamps a hand over his mouth, and suddenly Clint cares a hell of a lot when that effectively cuts off his oxygen supply. His captor holds his hand there tightly, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise for long agonizing minutes, until Clint’s thrashing against the chair, sucking half clotted blood into his lungs in a desperate attempt to breathe. It’s only when Clint’s eyes start to roll back that his captor lets go and lets Clint gasp in deep shuddering breaths, coughing roughly despite the fire lancing through his ribs.

Clint spits out blood tinged saliva and in the process, probably some loose teeth as well. Most of it ends up running down his chin rather than landing on the floor where he aimed. “Fuck… you…” He slurs.

In response, there’s a crackling sound and a sudden flare of light from the corner of his vision. Clint’s usually trained unresponsiveness has been muted by prolonged pain so he can’t stop his sudden flinch.

“What’s that? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” The shorter one asks, grinning widely from beside the battery. He sends sparks flying into the air once again, then yanks one end in close enough to ghost over Clint‘s skin. His face grows hard, “What did you say those coordinates were?”

Clint feels his throat seize up involuntarily and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t bring himself to snark back. He tries to look away, but they bring him back with a jolt of electricity, digging the ends of the wire into the muscle over his hip, where an inch of flesh had been already carved from him.

Clint screams, low and hoarse through shredded vocal chords. Every muscle in his body contracts, drawn taunt by the current of electricity running through him and suddenly he can’t breath, can’t think, can’t do anything but try to endure the agony running through him. When it finally stops, Clint collapses forward, reduced to a panting, shaking mess.

Then to his utter humiliation, he can feel the slid of hot tears start from the corners of his eyes.

His captors laugh themselves stupid. “Poor little agent.” Shorty coos. “Where’s that attitude of yours now?”

At this point, all Clint can do is shake his head and even that‘s an effort. He can’t do it, he can’t stand it anymore, and he almost finds himself praying for an end before he remembers that God had forsaken him long before this.

The absolutely worst part is that he would have told them. He would have betrayed everything he’d ever known if it somehow meant stopping the pain. SHIELD was right not to trust him. It’s that realization, beyond anything else that’s happened tonight, that finally defeats him.

There is no help coming. Clint knows this now with certainty. He possesses no valuable knowledge, has no irreplaceable skills. SHIELD wasn’t going to waste resources to rescue a dime a dozen sniper. They had probably already replaced him and slotted Clint’s file away with all the other agents that just couldn’t make the cut.

A palm taps roughly against his cheek. When there’s no response, the slaps get harder, but Clint is gone. Broken and exhausted, he has mentally checked out for the night, settling into a space that’s halfway between consciousness, where everything is fuzzy and floating and the only thing he has to concentrate on is getting in that next breath.

Distantly, he hears talking, “He’s done. What should we do with him?”

“Just leave him. If he’s alive in the morning, we’ll see if we can trade him for something worthwhile.”

There’re footsteps and the distant slam of a door and then Clint is alone.

The night cools the warehouse at an alarming speed. Clint, who’s bare-chested and covered in a tacky cold sweat, can’t decide if the shivering is from the lack of heat or if it’s leftover muscle spasms from the electricity. He’s trying to figure out a plan of escape, but finds he’s having trouble staying conscious for long enough to get his thoughts straight.

Several hours into the night, he’s slowly awakened when the static in his ear coalesces into a low steady buzz. Through it, he can hear the faint sound of someone talking.

Fuzzily, Clint tries to focus. The agent on the other end repeats himself sharply and Clint realizes he’s calling his name.

“Copy.” Clint rasps through razorblades, “This is Agent Barton.”

“Copy Agent Barton. Glad to finally hear your voice. What’s your status?”

“Completely fucked.” Clint chokes out a laugh, then winces as his body cries out in protest.

“Didn‘t think you‘d give up so easily, Agent.”

The smartass in him wants to make a comment, but another wave of dizziness suddenly overtakes him. Clint fights to hear the voice over the roaring in his ears. “Mmmhmm.” He mumbles, head lolling forward.

“Barton! Come on, talk to me.”

Clint tries valiantly not to lose consciousness. He can’t remember doing it, but at some point, his eyes have slid shut and it’s a struggle to lift them again.

The agent is speaking more urgently now, sharper and clipped. “Agent Barton, you stay with me. I need you to focus. Do you have a fix on your location?”

It’s that cool hint of steel that Clint grasps onto like a lifeline. He licks his cracked lips and croaks out, “Warehouse.”

“Going to need more than that. Description, street name, anything you can see.”

“’m cuffed.” He mumbles.

“Barton, I’ve read your file. I know you’ve escaped handcuffs while blindfolded and swinging upside-down from a trapeze. Move.”

Slowly, Clint pulls his head up enough to check his surroundings. The cuffs are too tight to slip, even if he manages to dislocate his thumb, but if Clint can get the room to stop spinning long enough, he can maybe find something to pick the lock. His captors have left him alone for the night, confident that Clint won’t be able to stand, much less escape. In truth, Clint’s not a hundred percent certain about the standing part either, but he’ll deal with that when he gets there.

He works his way over to the nearest crate, each scrape of the chair shooting spears of lightning through his brain, but it’s worth it when he spots the construction staple halfway embedded in the wood. He’ll has to work with his back to the crate, but visually Clint has an eidetic memory, so his hands can find the staple again easily.

By the time he works the metal out of the wood, he’s cracked the nail half off on his pointer finger, but he still has enough dexterity left to straighten the staple and insert the end into the handcuffs.

Once he’s out, Clint climbs to his feet, wobbling dangerously. The world spins wildly, forcing him over double and retching from the nausea. Eyes streaming, Clint clutches the back of the chair for a desperate moment before he can steady himself enough to stumble towards the door.

Belatedly, he remembers the voice over the comm. “West entrance. No hostiles. Location unknown.”

“Affirmative. Find an extraction point.”

Outside, nothing is familiar, which doesn‘t surprise him. He doesn’t think they travelled for too long after they snatched him, but he spent most of it unconscious, so he may have lost days, not just the hours that he noted from the position of the sun. Picking a random direction, Clint starts off, trying desperately to find any landmark, any street sign that can tell him where he is.

Some of his larger wounds have reopened with all the movement. Despite his best efforts, he still leaves behind a little trail of blood, droplets from his fingers, like breadcrumbs weaving haphazardly behind him.

He doesn’t know how much time passes as he stumbles around row after row of warehouses, just barely able to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He could be going in circles for all his knows. There‘s no answer over the comm, he can’t reach a contact point, and the dark’s creeping in from all angles of his vision.

He stumbles on the curb and can’t catch himself in time, hitting the pavement with a grunt of pain. For a moment, he just lays there, letting the night sounds wash over him. Clint’s pretty sure he doesn’t have it in him to get back up. At least he made a pretty good run at it, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

There’s a crackle of static.

“Barton?”

Clint lets out a sob of relief. “’m still here.”

The voice softens, “Clint. Don’t give up. You‘re so close.”

“I can’t.” Clint takes a shuddering breath, his fingers curled against the concrete. “I can’t do it.”

“Clint. Listen to me.” The agent says steadily, “You’re almost done. Just find a phone and we can bring you home.”

 _Home_. In his life Clint’s had a lot of homes. Homes where he didn’t know when food was coming next. Homes where he nursed hand shaped bruises every night. Homes where the lock didn’t work on his bedroom door. But then he remembers the helicarrier and how the engines lull him to sleep every night. How the serenity of the range stretched over him in the mornings. And exactly how pissed Natasha will be if he doesn’t come back.

He takes a breath and steels himself. This is going to hurt.

Eventually, he makes it to a street lined with business fronts. The stores are closed for the night, and Clint breaks into the first that he can reach. He leaves rust coloured fingerprints as he dials the emergency number. SHIELD had drilled it into his head before his first mission, so much so that he had dreamed about giant numbers chasing him in his sleep.

He hears a series of clicks as he’s transferred through connections. The line rings twice, then the connection clicks open. Clint stumbles through his name, authentication code, and the last few street names he remembers seeing before hanging up and trying to clean the blood off the phone with the hem of his shirt.

Once outside again, he ducks into a nearby alley and hopes that SHIELD finds him before the police do. He finds a hidden away doorway and collapses. The concrete underneath his cheek is cold against his skin but reliably solid and he anchors himself against it.

“Don’t even know your name.” He mumbles just loud enough for the comm unit to pick him up.

“It’s Coulson.”

“Do you make a habit of picking up stray snipers, Agent Coulson?”

“Only when they get in the habit of trying to get themselves killed, Agent Barton.”

Clint smiles into the darkness, “Thanks.”

Slowly, Clint lets his mind drift, but jerks awake in a panic when he feels himself falling asleep. He doesn’t want to fall asleep. The voice on the other line is silent. “Coulson? You still there?”

“Did you need something, Agent Barton?”

Swallowing nervously, Clint says, “No.. Just, umm… Don’t stop. Talking I mean.”

“I don’t have anything to talk about.”

“Anything. Please.” Clint whispers, “I don’t want to die alone.”

A pause. “Okay.” Coulson says. There’s a rustle, then he starts speaking in a low voice, reciting a poem with a steady, drumming rhythm.

Stubbornly, Clint fights for consciousness, clinging to the voice in his ear. He can’t make out words anymore, but lets the sound wash over him. Times slips away until he can see movement from three shadowy figures heading towards him. When they come close enough that he can make out a shock of red hair from the figure at point, it’s enough that Clint can let go, finally letting his eyes slide shut and the darkness to claim him.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint has to piss. Badly.

He’s been lying in bed for the past hour trying to ignore his bladder, but it’s a lost cause. If he doesn’t get up soon, he’s going to have a lot of awkward explaining to do in the morning.

On the plus side, the bathroom is less than ten feet away. On a good day, it’s a cakewalk. On a bad day, the bathroom is ten feet away and his fucking hip and leg won’t hold him past one.

It’s not a good day.

Clint really hates his life right now.

He’s been on PT basically since he regained consciousness but the damage had been thorough. The muscle had been shredded by a combination of knife wounds and electricity; he can barely support his weight, much less walk.

His therapist had given him a walker with a meaningful look and makes him take it to his appointments. Clint hates that thing with a passion. He hates the shuffle step it makes him take, he hates the looks of pity he gets when the staff don’t think he sees them, and he hates the way it takes up both hands, leaving none to use in defence.

He’s just waiting for someone to stick cut up tennis balls on the bottom of the legs and complete his slide into hell.

Even thinking about it gets his blood boiling. He’s been laid up for weeks. It’s the longest he’s been in medical since he started with SHIELD and he’s been bedridden for the majority of it. His only visitors have been Natasha and the medical staff and he’s about to go out of his mind from inactivity.

He tries not to think about his injuries, he really does, but he’s basically alone for all hours of the day and there’s not much else to keep his mind occupied. Aside from wallowing in self pity, the only other thing he has to distract himself with is about 30 channels of shit-all on TV. Well that and the fact that his bladder is about to burst.

The walker sits at the end of his bed and Clint sneers at it before manoeuvring himself to edge of his mattress. His last dose of morphine was before he went to sleep and he doesn’t know what time it is now but enough time has passed that the wound throbs dully as he shifts.

Clint takes a breath in, resolutely does not look at the walker, clenches his teeth, and stands.

Pain flares over his right hip and thigh despite his best efforts not to put any weight on it and he’s forced to put a hand back on the mattress to steady himself. He swallows the gasp trying to escape and digs in. He’s walked off bullet wounds before. Hell, he walked about 20 city blocks on this not even a month ago. He can do this.

Still, it’s a long minute before he can straighten, grasping onto the rail at the foot of the bed. Luckily for him, the urgency to pee has taken a backseat to the miniature knives stabbing into his leg, but it’s a small victory.

He makes it just about halfway, taking lopsided, staggering steps, before his muscles give and Clint goes sprawling to the ground.

He tries to twist to land on his back, but there’s not enough time and he hits with a jarring explosion of pain through his right side. Clint clamps his hands tight over the muscle, mouth open in a soundless scream and curls into himself until his forehead is pressed to the linoleum. He sucks in air through teeth gritted hard enough to creak.

“Fuck!” Clint snarls loudly into the empty room. “Fucking goddamn useless piece of shit!”

He tries to push himself up, but his muscles are shot. The adrenaline is making them shaky enough that Clint can only haul himself up to a half sitting position, and his arms tremble madly as he tries to brace them underneath himself. He collapses back to the ground with another string of swears.

Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing fervently that they hadn’t taken away his bow. The thought of shooting something is incredible appealing to him at this moment. Methodically, he runs through the itinerary of swears he has stored in his head. There’s a lot.

He didn’t know how much time passes until he hears the creak of his door opening.

“Shit, Clint. What are you doing?”

“I’m fucking pissing myself on the floor. What the hell do you think?” Clint snaps.

“That you’re an idiot.” Natasha shoots back and it’s a testament to the years they’ve put in together that she doesn’t say any more, just hauls him to his feet as gently as she can and helps him hobble to the toilet.

Clint mutters under his breath, “You going to hold my dick for me too?”

“Keep up the three years old with a tantrum act, I just might.” Natasha replies, not an ounce of pity in her voice. If Clint had been less angry, he would have been grateful for that, but as it is, he’s tired, cranky, and in no small amount of pain.

Natasha doesn’t leave his side once, propping herself under his arm and looking bored as he pees. She drags him back to the bed afterwards, helping him on it despite his protests.

Pointedly, she presses the call button at his side. When the nurse appears, she asks for Clint’s next dose of pain medications.

“Nat, I don’t need -”

“Shut up.” Natasha interrupts, “I am this close to strapping you in restraints right now, so don’t say a single word.”

Clint glares, leaning back against the headboard with his arms crossed over his chest, but it‘s about as effective as using a pellet gun against the Hulk. He’s sulking and knows it, but he can’t snap himself out of it.

He doesn’t like medical, but Clint’s not an idiot. He knows there’s been some serious damage done to his body. It’s going to take more than a few days and a couple of band-aids to heal, but he’s been here for weeks now and it feels like he hasn’t made any progress at all. All it’s been since he’s woken is consult after consult and non-stop poking and prodding of the invalid.

They haven‘t mentioned it yet, but he knows the doctors are scared of the electrocution affecting his spatial awareness and muscle control. He’s picked up at least that much from the hushed conversations. People always make a big deal about his eyes, but Clint has pretty damn good hearing too.

It sounds like they’re waiting to draw any conclusions until he’s more healed up and can stand long enough to test out his aim, but the fact that they‘re questioning it at all terrifies Clint. It’s his aim. His one and only saving grace. It gives him a whole new set of issues to have nightmares about.

Clint’s been poor all his life. A trailer trash kid from Iowa without a penny to his name. Up until SHIELD, his crowning achievement had been a starring slot in a dying circus. But throughout everything; the orphanage, the foster homes, the circus, he’d always had his perfect aim. He was fucking vain about it too and he knew it, but he had every right to be. He was damn good.

Was being the operative word. If he can’t shoot anymore, he’ll be grounded. And Clint knows what they’ll do with hawks that can’t fly.

Clint’s natural default when he’s scared is to withdraw until people go the fuck away, so he sits and he glares, and he doesn’t say a word. As usual, Natasha can see right through him.

With a sigh, she perches on the edge of his bed and places a hand on the crook of his elbow, tugging until he uncrosses his arms. Clint’s fingers are free of the splints but they still feel stiff and unyielding. Gently, she takes his hand into hers, massaging lightly into his palm and fingers.

They sit in silence for long minutes while she concentrates on soothing the tenseness out of his hands, lulling him into the quiet rhythm until he feels the tension in his body bleed away. Not looking up from their joined hands, she says softly, “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I didn’t either.“ Clint replies honestly. For a moment, he’s pulled back to those long hours tied in the warehouse and the haze of stumbling through empty streets. He shakes his head. “I didn’t think I’d make it out, but there was this guy on the comm. Coulson. He wouldn‘t let me give up.”

“Coulson.” Natasha repeats, a thoughtful look on her face, “Name doesn’t sound familiar. He must be from the local office.”

Clint shrugs, more settled now that the medication has started to kick in too. He can still recall with clarity the steadiness of Coulson’s voice in his ear and his gentle encouragement when Clint was ready to throw in the towel. “I wouldn’t have made it out without him.”

“At least there was someone who knew what they were doing. The field office was a scrambling mess until we got your call.” She comments as she switches hands, warming his fingers in the cup of her palms before starting. “I‘m glad he was there for you.”

“This is why I need you to watch my back.” Clint tells Natasha, matter-of-fact. “Everyone else is just incompetent.”

The corner of her lip twitches up. Clint knows her well enough to read the fondness in the expression. “Well, I’m here now, so go back to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Clint responds by inching over enough that she can fit and Natasha settles beside him on the mattress, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her body. As he starts to drift off, he thinks he hears her whisper, “Thanks for making it back.”

“Always.” He mumbles into the pillow as he drifts off.

*

The first time he makes it back to the range, his physician insists on staying and watching. He’s not the only one. Clint can’t see them, but he knows Fury and Hill are there too, watching from beyond the range enclosure.

He ignores them as he looks over his bow and equipment, running the checklist in his head as he has a hundred of times prior. He fastens and refastens his guards, tests the tension on his string. It soothes his nerves, helps him steady his breath and focus.

When he’s ready, Clint steps up to the lane, his body naturally arranging into the proper stance as he narrows his eyes on the target. There’s a row of tiny black crosshairs set against white. Stationary target. 25m distance. An insult to his skills.

He draws on the breath in and looses on exhale.

He misses.

The arrow lands on the inner rings, just outside the crosshairs.

He draws again. Then again and again, but his hands are starting to shake against the draw weight and the last arrow he fires misses the target completely.

He lowers his bow, breathing hard. Brings a trembling hand to swipe against his mouth.

“Agent Barton?”

He stares at the cluster of arrows around the target. Not a single one has found its mark. The last time he shot this badly, Trickshot had beaten him until he couldn’t walk.

Clint can’t take his eyes off his last arrow. Just stares at the black fletching until he can’t see anything else. At his side, his hand grips and regrips at his bow.

“Agent Barton?” A hand touches his shoulder and Clint snaps.

“Get out!” He roars, whirling around. The doctor flinches back, but they’re not SHIELD trained for nothing and he holds his ground.

“There’s no need to panic, Agent Barton.” He says calmly, arms held in front of his like he’s trying to calm a rabid dog. “This may not mean anything. We just need to do some more tests-”

Clint throws his bow at him. He follows with his quiver and is about to bodily attack when he gets tossed to the ground and amid the explosion of pain down his side, he feels a pinch at the thick muscle between his neck and shoulder and then the world is blissfully quiet.

*

That little stint earns him another month in medical, and the most comprehensive set of eye exams Clint has ever undergone.

When they finally let him out of medical, there are strict instructions in place and Natasha to ensure he follows them. Clint ignores their well wishes and the cane they offer and hobbles back to his quarters.

In the time of his covalence, the rumours have run rampant amongst the other agents. Everywhere he goes, he imagines the whispers that follow.

_Clint Barton was tortured for three days straight. Clint Barton was flayed until his skin was hanging by strips. Clint Barton had his fingers snapped and his tongue cut out by his captors._

Clint doesn’t have the energy nor the inclination to set the agents straight. Some days he doesn’t know if he can even get out of bed. There’s a bone deep weariness wrapped around him that he just can’t shake.

He’s never been the most social person, but he withdraws even more now from what little interaction he had with other personnel and guards himself against prying eyes. He takes to odd hours at the gym, eats alone in his room, and is silent on the comm in a way his handlers would have only dreamed about before.

But despite his virtual disappearance from the public eye, the rumours continue.

_Clint Barton was beaten until he came back broken._

He wonders how true that one was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [lilsmartass](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass) for the beta on this chapter.

Clint tries to rest for the first few weeks, but it gets old depressingly quickly. There is surprising little to do when he is restricted from too much physical activity. He never realized just how much of the day he dedicated to pummelling other people and objects in the name of training. Now most of his days are spent wandering between his room and the common areas.

Over the past few months, he’s gotten to know most of SHIELD medical pretty well. They’re an all right group of people, but damn do they make it hard for him to like them. Every time he would venture out to the common rooms, someone from psych would inevitably track him down to ask him how he was feeling that day, or how he was dealing with the changes in his life, or, and this was the best one, how he was recovering in the wake of his ‘interrogation’.

Clint is really tired of the questions. He doesn’t need the constant reminder that he was dumb enough to be taken prisoner and ‘interrogated’ for two days straight. He has first-hand intimate knowledge of all the ways in which he was ‘interrogated’, and he doesn’t feel like sharing.

He’s going to have a fucking nervous breakdown if people.  Don’t. Stop. Asking.

As a consequence, Clint is mostly resigned to staying in his quarters and reading. Well, that and searching the internet for porn, but even that had lost its appeal after a few solid weeks. Plus, he figures he doesn’t need tendonitis on top of everything else.

When they finally give him the go ahead to train, Clint gratefully seizes the opportunity with both hands. He becomes single-mindedly focused on making it back to field status. Psych would probably have a field day about what that says about his self-worth or some other bullshit, but Clint doesn’t give a shit. He just wants to get back out into the field and punch something. Someone, preferably.

Gradually, he ramps up his training until he’s spending hours in the gym. The road back isn’t smooth, but Clint expected no less. He knows his limits. He accepts that no matter how hard he works on it, he’s probably always going to have that slight limp from the damage in his hip and a split second of hesitation when kicking off his right side.

He may never be back on par with his previous competency level, the muscle damage was too severe for that, but he’s still head and shoulders above any other agent save Natasha. Nothing’s going to stop him from getting back to active field status.

It’s Assistant Director Hill who has the final sign off. She does so with speculative eyes that observe him closely throughout the psych evaluations, the physicals, the arms recertification, and through all the other hoops that Clint is forced to jump.

Clint knows Hill had never wanted him with SHIELD in the first place. She had fought long and hard against his recruitment, only to be overridden by Director Fury. Clint still remembers the way her sharp voice rang over the newest class of recruits and how the weight of her gaze had settled upon him as she had spoken. Loyalty. Dedication. Sacrifice.

Nowadays, she oversees operations rather than handle assets directly, but she still maintains control over final deployments. She was the one who’d sent him on that fuck up of a mission in the first place. Not at any point does Clint see a single inkling of remorse for that. He hadn’t expected any.

His first few missions back are milk runs. Intel gathering. Surveillance. They’re missions that require little interaction with the targets, little chance of action at all. It would be - should be - an insult to send someone on his level, but Clint’s so grateful to be back in the field that he’ll take anything at this point.

Eventually they send him out to the desert to observe, and possibly eliminate, a new player gaining power in West Africa.

Around day five, Clint’s reaching the end of his rope. There are certain tricks that one can employ to keep circulation moving, keep muscles from tensing, and prevent pressure sores when maintaining one position for an extended period of time. Clint knows all of them, has used all of them at one point or another, but he forgot to take into account the effect of prolonged inactivity on his recovering joints and muscles.

The throbbing starts in his traitorous right hip and spreads down his leg, shooting pins and needles whenever he moves. He’s taken to his last resort trick, reciting the multiplication tables in his mind to try to ignore the pain. When that doesn’t work, he starts going through his repertoire of knock, knock jokes in desperation. There’s a lot.

Despite placing his hideout in the shade, Clint feels like he’s baking. There’s about three more hours until the end of his watch, and he imagines by the end of it, he’ll just faint over the side to get to the ground. He’s trying to decide the best position in which to sprawl for maximum effect when his comm clicks to life.

“Agent Barton.”

“Sir?” Clint croaks out. Hill‘s the lead on this operation, but Michaels is his direct handler. This new voice belongs to neither of them. However, it does sound familiar, and Clint mentally sifts through his list of alternate handlers. He licks his lips and tries again. “New orders, Sir?”

“No. No change. Just checking to make sure you haven’t expired in the heat.”

Clint is mildly surprised. Usually once he’s up in his nest, no one pays him any mind outside of scheduled check-ins or until the action begins. He doesn’t know whether to be annoyed that they felt the need to check up on him, or grateful that they wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead from heat exhaustion yet.

Suddenly, it clicks where he’s heard this voice before. “Coulson?” He asks hopefully.

“Barton.” Coulson replies, faint amusement tingeing his voice.

“I thought Hill was running this one.”

“There were other pressing matters that required her attention. I‘ve been temporarily assigned until the situation is resolved.”

“Hmm.” Clint says knowingly, “That stick up her ass giving her trouble again?”

“Hilarious.” Coulson deadpans.

Clint cracks a grin, eyes still focused on the target site through the scope. “Did you need something, Sir?”

“More than you‘d be able to provide, Agent, however, I’m willing to settle. How are you faring, Agent Barton?”

“Fresh as a spring chicken, Sir.”

“Will you require relief for the remainder of your shift?”

The question immediately sparks a longing for the bed he left this morning; his soft, warm, and oh so comfortable bed, but Clint tamps down the desire almost as soon as it appeared. He would never live it down if he packed it in early. “I’ll make it, Sir. You may have to scrape me up and pour me into the jet after I’m done, but I’ll make it.”

“Noted. Good work, Barton. Stay hydrated.” And with that last suggestion, Coulson is gone as abruptly as he came.

Moving slowly, Clint digs out the juice pouch he has hidden in his pack. It isn’t any cooler or any less muggy outside, but Clint sips it with a smile.

*

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, as do the following few days. Three weeks into his assignment Clint finally gets the kill order. The World Security Council wants to make a statement, so they ask for the death to take place in a public venue.

Clint makes a face when he hears that. That means a market and markets introduce a ton of new variables into play. It’s nothing he can’t handle, but it’s still an annoyance he could have done without. To make matters worse, they want him using a rifle instead of his preferred bow in order to make it to seem like a rival kill instead of a government sanctioned hit.

He finds his perch early in the day and mentally preps himself for another shift of staying stock still to avoid the possibility of someone from the crowd spotting him. He’s been following the target long enough to know that on Wednesdays he comes to the market with his family, purportedly to spend time with them, but in reality to meet with the tall, reedy man in the small, out of the way stall, to exchange words and envelopes in the half shadows.

The sun is up early, scorching the earth until heat is visibly rising off the ground. It turns the air into a shimmering haze. Clint can already feel the sweat beading down the back of his neck into the collar of his uniform. It gets into his eyes, stinging and burning, but he makes no move to relieve the irritation. He waits for hours unmoving, not a twitch to betray his position.

The migraine starts as it usually does, this time triggered by heat and dehydration. At first, it’s just a small throbbing at the base of his skull, always slightly to the left. As the hours pass, it spreads to encompass his whole head in a hammering mess that radiates down his neck and into his shoulders.

Not for the first time, Clint starts rethinking his decision to come back to the field so quickly. Perhaps the long term effects from the concussion weren’t as healed up as he thought. Still, he has yet to abandon a target since his return, and he’s not about to stop for this. Not when he’s so close.

He slides a wafer of Maxalt out from his front pocket and slips it past parched lips. Ideally, he’d rather not take medication at all, but the migraine has a higher change of fucking with his aim than the medication does.

Hopefully, he’d caught it soon enough to curb the worst of the pain, although the way his week has been going he doubts it. As stealthily as he can, he takes a few sips from his water pack before the nausea starts, then he grits his teeth and settles in.

Mid-afternoon his target arrives, conveniently when the market is bustling and when the loud voices of the vendors and crowds have been shooting spikes through Clint’s temple for hours. The comm channels crackle to life, and Clint acknowledges that he has eye on the target. He follows him through his scope, patiently waiting for the moment when he gets the all clear to shoot.

Slowly, his finger tightens on the trigger, and Clint loses himself in the rhythm of breaths and heartbeats, waiting for his target to step into the correct position, and for the beat between heartbeats when he’ll pull and send a bullet through his eye.

Suddenly, there’s a whip sharp crack of noise and the market explodes into motion.

Clint is yanked hard from his previous state of mind with a gut churning jolt of adrenaline. He struggles to follow his target through the crowds where people now are screaming and scattering everywhere.

Over the comm the frequencies are flooded with shouted orders, but no one is making sense. It gets louder and louder until the pounding in his heart is echoed in the throbbing of his hip and a roar in his ear.

Through his scope, he spots soldiers starting to force their way through the crowds. He’s about to dismantle and abort when he hears Coulson’s voice rising above the rest.

“Agent Barton. Status report.”

“Clusterfuck, sir.” Clint replies tersely. He curses Hill for not warning him about competition for the hit, Intel for not predicting a rival attempt, and then Logistics for fucking it up once again. After that, he adds the target for choosing the market, and the crowds of bystanders running around like chicken below. “I’ve lost the mark.”

“Are you able to locate him again?”

“Not unless he starts shooting up neon green beacons. Did I happen to mention the clusterfuck down there?”

“You’ll find him.”

Clint grits his teeth, staring down the line of his scope. He would give anything to have his bow right now. To have that familiar solid grip in his right hand and the gentle creak of the string past his ear, but SHIELD wants to leave no footprints. His bow was far too conspicuous.

“Agent Barton.” Coulson says evenly, breaking through his train of thought. “Slow down. _Calm_ down and breathe. Focus on the task at hand, Agent Barton.”

Clint wants to tell the guy he sounds like an ad for hot yoga, but he also wants to not fuck up another mission, so he does as he’s told.

“Got him?”

Clint takes a slow breath and takes the panic, the pain in his head, the longing for his bow, and all the other millions of things shouting for his attention and pushes them down.

The sweat burns a cut on the underside of his jaw. A muscle in his back twinges.

He focuses on the crowd, filtering through people until he sees his mark. He allows the tiniest bit of satisfaction to slip through his voice. “Got him.”

“Green light. Take the shot.”

Clint shoots.

He doesn’t stick around to see the aftermath. As soon as he gets the shot off, he starts packing. It’s past time to get the hell out of dodge.

When he gets back to the rendezvous point, Hill looks fit to have kittens. Their convoy is the last to leave, because they had to wait for his sorry ass. Clint can almost see the expletives floating above her head as she orders him into the jeep, lecturing the whole while about his recklessness.

Clint bears it all in silence. He doesn’t know what she’s all up in arms about; he got the damn target. But right now, he doesn’t give enough of a shit to argue with her. His head is pounding, and he just wants to lie down.

Vaguely, he wonders if they have to wait for Coulson or if the man is already gone. He would much rather listen to Coulson’s voice lecturing about proper SOP than Hill‘s, but as soon as Clint gets in, they slam the door shut, and the convoy roars off in a cloud of dust.

*

Clint wakes up in Medical. Of course. Fuck Medical.

Distantly, he remembers downing an entire litre of water and whatever pills were handed to him before lying sideways across the bench seat in the cargo hold of the jet. Everything got a little fuzzy after that.

The room feels freezing in comparison to the desert heat, and the contrast isn‘t helping much with the tap dancers in his head. He’s thankful that at least the nausea has subsided.

There are no windows in the room he’s been confined to, but there is a clock on the opposite side of the room so he knows it’s three, but without the sunlight he can’t decide whether it’s am or pm.

“It’s a.m.” comes a voice from his right. The words are delivered softly, but they carry easily across the stillness of the room.

Clint startles and glances over sharply. There’s a man perched in the chair in the corner of the room.

Clint studies him carefully. He looks to be maybe a handful of years older than Clint, dark brown hair starting to recede and dressed in a suit that Clint is willing to bet is worth more than his entire wardrobe. He’s leaning forward towards Clint, elbows resting on his knees, and a faint look of amusement on his face.

There‘s something in the way he holds himself. Something about the smile that almost plays upon his face, and the way his gaze holds Clint‘s steady. “Coulson?” Clint ventures tentatively.

The man smiles, “Phil is fine.”

Clint pushes himself up onto an elbow. “You know that’s kind of creepy, right?”

There’s a soft huff of laughter. “I preferred not to wake you if I could help it. You looked like you could use the sleep.” And Clint can’t argue with that. He’d caught a glance of himself in the bathroom mirror a few days ago, and it was more than a little cringe-worthy. His face was haggard and the shadows under his eyes were starting to grow shadows.

“Are you waiting to debrief?” Clint asks, because he can’t think of any other reason someone would wait in his room at the ass crack of dawn.

Phil‘s lips press together, like he wants to laugh and is trying to hide it. “The questions can wait. Generally, I find debriefing more effective when the operative is fully awake and caffeinated.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause as Clint processes this. It’s unusual for anyone to visit him, much less in the early hours before dawn. Even Natasha won’t come to see him this early. Clint’s mind immediately starts to explore ulterior motives. When he can’t think of any, he asks, “Then why are you here? Umm... Sir.” He tacks on belatedly.

Phil shrugs depreciatively, the motion not disrupting the lines of his suit at all, “No particular reason. I was finishing up for the day and wanted to look in on you.”

Clint is unexpectedly, and probably inordinately, pleased by this. The only thing that keep him from beaming up at Phil is the notion that he should keep at least some of his dignity intact. He nods as casually as he can and says, “Thank you, Sir. I’m sorry to have kept you.”

“It’s not an issue. I keep odd hours. It comes with the job.” That being said, it is still the middle of the night.

Clint is impressed about the kind of clearance that Phil must have to get in here. He’s pretty sure that the nurses at SHIELD are hired more for their balls of steel than any other particular skill, because they will go up against anyone and anything to make sure that the general ward is empty after midnight. Those guys are hard-core about patients getting their rest.

“How did you get in here?” Clint asks. “I thought that crazy red-headed nurse worked nights. That woman is utterly terrifying. I think even Fury‘s afraid of her.”

Phil shifts back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I have my ways.”

“Crazy secret ninja ways?”

Phil chuckles, “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” Clint replies immediately. Well, that is true. His brain no longer feels like it wants to melt out from in between his ears.

Phil raises an eyebrow.

Clint cocks his head to the side, “Is that eyebrow thing something they teach you at SHIELD?”

“Agent Barton.”

“Did I miss a class? ‘Cause you and Nat have it down.” Clint rattles on, ignoring the look of sympathy building on Phil‘s face.

“Clint.”

“Fine.” Clint heaves a sigh. “So you know on TV, how the heroes jump out of a cars, fall down fire escapes, get shot, and then are completely fine the next episode? Apparently that doesn’t actually happen in real life. When shit happens and it’s six months down the line, you know what? It still feels like shit.” Clint wasn’t raise to be a whiner, but it’s been a bad week, on top of a whole lot of worse months, and frankly, he’s getting a little tired of it.

“Your injuries won’t last forever,” Phil says patiently, “but you may have to be prepared for the fact that there will always be setbacks.”

Setbacks, right. Clint is well versed in setbacks. Sometimes it feels like Clint‘s entire life has been composed of one escalating obstacle after another. He‘s getting a little tired of the world beating him into the ground. Is it too much to ask to catch a little break once in a while?

He scowls, “I am fucking sick of it. You know what‘s a setback? I can‘t seem to make it two weeks out of medical. Everyone thinks I‘m some sort of pity case, and to solve it, people want to _talk_ , like fucking talking will magically fix everything.” Clint gestures wildly with his hands. “Who the hell ever wants to talk about their feelings? So then I have Psych following me around looking like I took the last piece of pie and left the empty box on the counter.”

Clint feels the words bubbling up in his throat, and try as he might, he can‘t stop his mouth from moving. “I hurt all the time. My fingers hurt, my head hurts, my hip wants to declare independence and physically rip off my body. I hate it. So you can take your setbacks and fucking stuff it.”

Clint’s breathing hard by the end of his rant. He glares at Phil, who hasn‘t twitched from his position in the chair.

The standoff ends when Phil tips his head to the side, smiling disarmingly, “Feel better?”

Clint winced, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to unload all that on you.  I’m not really sure where that came from.”

“Well, they do say caring is sharing.” Phil deadpans and Clint lets out a surprised bark of laughter. Phil‘s expression softens. In a gentle voice, he adds, “I would suggest though, that these are the sort of things that you should be sharing with your therapist, rather than wasting your energy in an elaborate game of hide and seek.”

Clint mouth twists to the side, “Et tu, brute?”

Phil’s about to respond when there’s a light knock on the door, and red-headed nurse steps in a second later and flicks on the lights. If she’s surprised to see him awake, she doesn’t show it.

At her entrance, Clint swivels to face her, irritated. There’re a lot of things about the medical ward that he doesn’t like and this nears the top of the list. Why do medical staff even bother knocking if they weren’t going to wait for an acknowledgement before entering?

“What?” He demands shortly, but his disgruntled look does nothing to phase her.

She walks to his bedside, grabs his chart and says pleasantly, “I thought I heard your voice. How are you feeling, Agent Barton?”

Clint crosses his arms over his chest, “Peachy.”

“Well, that’s certainly good to hear.” She smiles distractedly while her eyes remain down on the chart, checking his vitals and scribbling them down with smooth efficiency. Not once does she even spare a glance at Phil.

Clint watches their non-interaction and mentally notches his estimation of Phil’s clearance level to ‘past any level you currently knew existed.’

The nurse, McKenna, Clint belatedly recalls, asks cheerfully, “Would you like anything for sleep, Agent Barton?”

Phil hums lightly and shakes his head.

Clint in total agreement. He doesn’t like taking medication for sleep. Not only did they affect his reaction time, but the pills tended to leave a weird metallically taste in his mouth that was just disgusting.

“Agent Barton?” McKenna is still looking at him expectantly.

“Uh no, thanks. I’m fine.” He replies. She looks sceptical, but leaves with a promise to be back if he needs anything.

Sleep has never been a problem for Clint. Over the years, he’s learned to catch up on sleep basically anywhere. Even the mention of it now makes him yawn. He stifles it with the palm of his hand and mutters sorry to Phil.

Phil shakes his head, “No, my apologies, Agent Barton. I forget that not everyone subscribes to the same hours that I do. I’ll let you catch up on some sleep.”

“You staying?” The question slips out unintentionally. Clint winces and tries to convince himself that it didn’t come out sounding too pitiful.

“I could.” Phil replies without judgment. He resumes his previous position, elbows rested lightly on his knees. His expression is kind, undemanding, as Clint settles under the covers. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Westgate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/profile) who is amazing and helped me whip this fic into shape. I'm so grateful for your help!

“Agent Barton, do any of your recent activities involve pranking certain senior agents?”

Pausing mid-sentence, Clint looks up from his field report with a slight frown, “Nothing they should have been able to track back to me.”

He’s sitting across from Phil in his office on the seventh floor. It’s not an unusual occurrence these days. Ever since he’d found out Phil had been transferred to the New York headquarters, Clint had maybe started to stalk him. Just a little.

Clint finds out a lot about Phil in the days following their first face-to-face meeting. And although he sort of doubts that Phil grew up in a Buddhist temple and saved an endangered species of tree frogs, the rest sounds reasonably credible.

Rumour is, Phil Coulson is a level 7 agent who used to run with Fury back in his days in the Rangers. Phil was some hot shit who dug Fury out more times than he could count. That Fury’s brought him in now means that something big is up, and Clint’s not exactly eager to find out what it is.

Phil usually left the door cracked when he didn’t mind being interrupted. On this particular day, Clint was taking advantage to catch up on his paperwork away from the prying eyes of other SHIELD personnel.

Clint doesn’t know why Phil has taken an interest in him, but with Nat being sent out of the country increasingly often, Clint is spending more and more time in Phil’s company.

He likes spending time with Phil. Phil, who never says a word about the mission, about his injuries, about the way Clint has to get up and walk around his office to stretch out sore muscles, or the way he’ll grip and re-grip a pen to work out the tingling sensation in his fingertips.

For a senior officer, Phil is pretty awesome.

Speaking of senior officers, “Why do you ask?” he asks Phil innocently.

“Agent Hill was keeping a rather close eye on you today.”

“I don’t blame her. It’s pretty hard to take your eyes off something this smoking.” Clint leans back into his chair with a wide grin, folding his arms behind his head and throws his legs up over the corner of Phil‘s desk. He stretches back until the hem of his shirt just skims the skin of his abs, leering suggestively.

Phil doesn’t rise to the bait. He sweeps his legs off the desk without raising his head and continues writing. He says, “I suspect it had less to do with the circumference of your biceps and more to do with the pair of goats in her office this morning.”

“Really, goats?” Clint feigns surprise, “The sheer audacity of some people.”

“Baby goats, if the gossip is to be believed.” Phil added.

“Baby goats. That’s adorable. How does anyone not love baby goats?” he pauses. “She didn’t shoot them, did she?”

“They were in her office-”

“Couldn’t leave them outside.”

“-eating her ferns-”

“Really should hang those higher.”

“-and her paperwork.”

Clint pressed his lips together, trying to school his features into a frown, but the twitch in his eye gives him away. “Please tell me there are security camera feeds to her office.”

Phil pinched the skin between the eyes. “Perhaps drawing the ire of your senior agents is not in your best interest.”

“Did I mention they were adorable? Because they really were adorable.” Clint says earnestly.

Clint loves it when Phil gets that put-upon expression on his face. “Come on Phil. I know you haven’t been here long, but trust me when I say that Hill could stand to loosen up a little. Besides, it’s her job to watch. That’s why she’s the Agent-in-Charge, and we’re the grunts.”

“Assets.” Phil corrects absently, initialling the bottom right corner of the form before flipping the sheet and sliding it across the desk to Clint. “Initial, date, here and here please.”

“Only because you’ve asked so nicely.” Clint quips.

Coulson files the sheet away and turns a thoughtful eye on Clint for a moment. The silent scrutiny is just bordering on creepy when he asks, “How are you settling back in?”

Unconsciously, Clint flexes his fingers. “Can’t complain.”

“Training?”

“Working on it.” Clint replies. There’s no way Phil doesn’t know that Clint spends most his free time at the range. “Some days are better than others.”

“Are you still meeting with Dr. Strandberg?”

“You mean my therapist?” Clint huffs a breath of laughter, “He likes to talk more than I do. It’s very therapeutic. Utterly life-changing, Sir. Really.”

Phil sighs, no doubt making a note to assign Clint to another therapist. “Any of the other agents giving you trouble?”

The rumours haven’t stopped, but Clint had more than enough practice ignoring them. He shrugs, “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Post-mission work-ups?”

Clint smiles, “Don‘t need help with my homework, thanks.”

“And Agent Hill?” Coulson asks, “This animosity between the two of you isn‘t new.”

“You’ve read my file.” Clint jerked his chin at the two files sitting off to the side on Coulson’s desk, raising his eyebrow pointedly, “Hers too, apparently. You know she’d do anything to get rid of me.”

Sighing, Coulson sets his pen down and crosses his arms, resting them on his desk. He leans over them to ask Clint, “How long has Agent Hill been at this complex?”

“Does it matter?”

“Humour me.”

“No clue. Although I’m pretty sure she sprung from the womb with a gun in one hand and the SHIELD manual in the other.” Clint tells Phil in all seriousness. At Coulson’s look, Clint throws up his hands, “Who knows? I don’t keep track of that shit. She was a fixture long before I got here.”

“And I can assure you that she has developed some measure of competence to come as far and as long as she has in that time. Agent Hill may never be your best friend, she may never even be friendly, but SHIELD does not make a habit of randomly promoting agents. The chain of command exists for a reason, Agent Barton, and it would do you well to respect it.”

Clint doesn‘t sulk, but it‘s a near thing, “Even if they’re out to get me?”

“Agent Hill is not out to get you.”

Clint scowls, “I still think she could stand to lighten up about certain things.”

“Hence the goats?”

“Goats are harmless.”

And to that, Clint gets a long look and a raised eyebrow. As far as reprimands go, it’s surprisingly effective.

“Fine. Maybe slightly childish.” Clint grudgingly admits, “You really know how to suck the fun out of everything, you know that?”

“It’s a required skill for all senior agents.” Phil replied without missing a beat. He signs off another form and tosses it into his outbox. He ignores Clint‘s amused snort at his comment and gestures at the file in front of him, “Finish your write-up. And in the future, I suggest you refrain from invoking Agent Hill’s ire. She may shoot you.”

“Glad to know SHIELD is taking an interest in the welfare of their agents.” Clint teases Phil, and feels a warm flood of satisfaction when Phil laughs.

“My interest is in obtaining objectives.” Phil informs him, matter-of-fact, “The welfare of my agents is entirely a fringe benefit.”

Clint grins, “You’re all heart, Sir.”

*

The man at the marketplace had been a major player in the political scene in Africa. On the side, he’d been quietly amassing enough men and firepower to overthrow the current government. The power vacuum they’d left behind in his organization had been filled with one man, not the struggle amongst his lieutenants as they had been predicting. Instead of the minor squabbling and in-fighting that they expected for years, the newcomer had managed to gather support not only from within his organization, but from his opposing forces as well.

“He’s got leverage.” Phil says, studying the pages of the brief. “Probably family. It’s a common enough play. If I had to guess, I’d say kidnapping. Threatening them alone wouldn’t be enough to commit that level of allegiance. It’s a pretty gutsy move, though.”

“Why‘s that?” Clint asks, skimming Phil’s brief upside down. He’s got his own file, but Phil’s is always more interesting.

Phil taps the page over the diagram of the compound, indicating the area where they‘re most likely being held. “Provides us with a single target to regain control. Once they‘re free, they‘re be no reins left on that army he‘s amassing.”

The intel came in early this morning. SHIELD was waiting for the right time to deploy, but things are moving quickly. Clint fully expects to get shipped out in the next two weeks.

Until then, they prep for the mission by familiarizing themselves with the compound layout and the mission parameters. Clint brings the food, take-out as per usual, from the Chinese restaurant down the street.

They fell into the routine a few months ago, Clint finding it easier to walk through the mission files with Phil’s perspective on the events, rather than working it through on his own. Phil has a much better understanding of the politics surrounding any given mission, that’s all. It has nothing to do with the small thrill in his stomach that he gets every time Phil glances up at him.

“SHIELD recalling Natasha for his one?” Clint asks.

Phil nods, “Most likely. I haven‘t heard official word yet, but her skills would be an asset on this mission.”

Clint hums around a mouthful of food, pleased and continues to skim down the list of mission personnel. The name on the next paper catching his eye, and he swallows hastily to comment, “Hill’s on this one.”

“Yes, Agent Hill has been the senior S.O on all the missions relating to this matter.”

“Seems kind of a waste to put two senior agents on a mission like this.”

Phil folds his hands on his desk and the expression on his face means he’s carefully choosing his words, “The mission was deemed to be of enough import to offer Agent Hill additional support.”

Clint raises his eyebrows, “Right. Like anyone’s going to buy that.” He suspected it had more to do with the fact that her last mission that caused the fuck-up in the first place.

“It’s an important mission.” Phil answers diplomatically, “Agent Hill could use a second set of eyes on it.”

“Uh huh.” Clint drawls, “Because SHIELD just loves wasting resources. Fury got you watching her, huh?”

Clint took Phil’s lack of reply as a resounding yes. Clint doesn’t feel satisfied per say, but he’ll admit it is a little gratifying to see Hill get taken down a notch. He knows it’s petty, but even almost a year later, he still can’t brush aside that Hill was the lead agent on the mission that’d got him kidnapped.

Phil cleared his throat, shuffling all the papers together and flipping the file closed. “The fact remains that she will be on the mission. Have you finished aggravating her yet?”

“Am I ever done pissing people off?” Clint replies through a mouthful of chow mein and laughs at Phil’s exasperated sigh, “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I can be a good little assassin.”

For a second, Clint almost thinks that Coulson is going to roll his eyes, and he watches in eager anticipation, but Coulson just shakes his head and deadpans, “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Clint salutes him with a pair of chopsticks, “Sir, yes sir.”

*

Clint hasn’t seen Natasha for more than a passing glance since his reinstatement as a field agent. These past couple of weeks, she’d been in deep cover in the Ukraine.  He’s not exactly sure how long her assignment was supposed to be, but it’s easy enough to figure when she’s back on base because the first thing she does is break into his room and stare at him until he wakes up.

He’d like to say he knew the second she walked in, but it’s probably a good long minute before he registers her presence and cracks an eye open to look up at her silhouette, “What is with people watching me in my sleep. Stop it. It’s creepy and it‘s weird.”

Natasha looks distinctly unimpressed. She disappears out of his field of vision and by the sound of it, starts digging through his drawers, looking for a clean set of clothes. Clint snorts. Good luck with that.

He closes his eyes as soon as she has her back turned and snuggles back into his pillow, “I don’t care what you have planned, I’m not getting out of bed.”

He’s halfway back to sleep again when his gym shoes get dropped unceremoniously on his stomach. “Get up, we’re heading to the gym.”

“Aw, Tasha.  Are you kidding me?” Clint moans and flops over, knocking his shoes to the ground. His voice is slightly muffled from the fabric of his pillow, “You’ve back for what, an hour? Don’t you need sleep?”

“I sleep on the way home.”

Clint groans, “Then don’t I need sleep?”

“You’ve already slept for the better part of 10 hours.” Natasha replies in an amused voice.

“How the hell do you know that?” he grumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

“I have my ways.”  She replies. 

“I don’t find that reassuring in the least.” Clint says, getting up and pawing around for clothes that pass the smell test. 

Natasha picks up one of his shirts, giving it a shake and frowning as the dust comes off in a puff. She then picks off the worst of the dust bunnies still clinging to the fabric, “Why are all your clothes so dirty?  Are you crawling around the maintenance ducts again?  Didn’t Medical tell you that’s bad for your hip?”

Clint shrugs in response, pulling the shirt from her hand and checking it for stains.  It passes well enough, so he yanks it over his head along with a pair of pants and turns to her for inspection. 

She rolls her eyes at him and wipes the smudge of dust from his cheekbone.  She hands him his gym duffle on their way out, then leads the way down the hall.

There’s a smaller, out of the way gym on the 5th floor. It’s bare of any training apparatus and almost all open floor, save a set of mats and the small equipment locker in the corner. It’s rarely visited; most agents favour the larger training facility on second. Natasha prefers it because it means there are fewer people to study her technique while she‘s sparring. Clint prefers it because it means there’s no one to watch him getting ground into the floor again and again.

They face off and Natasha opens with a straightforward combination of jabs and hooks to warm up. “Word is you’ve been quite the recluse as of late.”

Clint ducks her jabs, then bounces back, weight transferring easily on the balls of his feet.  He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like socializing. Torture tends to do that to some people.”

Natasha studies him carefully as she circles him. His fighting stance has been subtly adjusted for his weakened right side, trying to hide his vulnerabilities, but he’s overcompensated. She sees through the façade easily enough. “Are you spending all your time in your quarters?”

“Got a lot of catching up to do.” Clint mimics jerking off with a leer. He dodges under her roundhouse and comes back up, hands at the ready, “Besides, I haven’t felt like going out much.”

“Or at all?” Natasha suggests dryly.

“I go out sometimes.” Clint says defensively, “I hang out at Coulson’s office.”

“Right, Coulson.” Natasha says and feints to his left before going back to attack his weak side. She gets in a solid enough blow to stagger him back a few steps. Devious bitch, Clint thinks fondly. Natasha continues, “Feel like sharing him anytime soon?”

It’s rare, for an agent to be assigned solely to one handler, but it seems the powers to be have made an exception in Clint’s case. Clint‘s pretty grateful for that, seeing as Coulson‘s about the only one he can stand to be around these days, present company excepted. “You can request him for a handler.  I’m sure he could use you on some of the missions he runs.”

Natasha hums noncommittally, blocking Clint‘s cross with her forearm and sweeping it off to the side. She follows with a knee to his midsection. “He hasn‘t been here that long. Why did he get moved here?”

Clint hesitates, a split second pause which Natasha tries to move in on. She glances a blow off his shoulder, but Clint gets his guard up before he takes any more damage. He dodges her again, “I think Fury called him in.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Why?”

“Dunno.” Clint retreats, trying to stay out of Natasha’s range. “They’re old friends, I think.”

“You don’t up and move across continents because your BFF comes calling.”

Clint thinks about some of the names he read upside-down from the reports on Coulson’s desk, the old mission reports, and intel he’s slowly combing through, and he shrugs, before ducking under Natasha’s right hook.

The move leaves him open and Natasha‘s foot catches him in the side, but he grabs it before she can withdraw and tries to flip her down onto the mat. He should have known a long stint in the Ukraine wouldn’t be enough downtime for her to fall for that. She’s always been too agile for him. Instead of falling, she uses the foot in his hand for leverage and flips, taking her other leg around until the heel catches him across the face and he’s the one who ends up on the mat.

Clint sprawls back panting, and presses a hand to the tender spot on his jaw. “Jeez, Nat. Can we not start the morning by knocking out my teeth?”

She rolled her eyes and reaches for his outstretched hand, pulling him up without any visible effort, “You’re fine. Come on, I‘m getting bored.” She advances before he can respond, and it’s clear that the warm-up is over.

With the intensity ramped up, it’s impossible to get any conversation in. For the next thirty minutes, Clint can only concentrate on not face planting into the mats. He’s only somewhat successful.

They stop when it becomes clear Clint’s at the end of his rope. As soon as Natasha backs off, signalling the end of the match, he collapses into a sweaty pile on the mats.

Natasha drops to the ground next to him, slowly catching her breath. She starts to stretch, positioning herself into a butterfly stretch and folding her upper body over her legs until her forehead touches the ground.

Clint gingerly stretches out his right leg, then folds it over his left, twisting to stretch out his hip flexor. He switches sides and makes a face at Natasha, who appeared to be slowly folding herself into a pretzel. When she looks up at him from the ground, Clint tilts his head sideways to match the angle of her head and sticks his tongue out at her.

Natasha laughs and unravels herself, stretching her shoulders back, before unrolling the wraps from her hands. She’s relaxed from her fighting stance, but Clint isn‘t fooled. “What’s with the third degree?”

“Curiosity.”

She hauls him to his feet as Clint scoffs, “Nice try, Tasha. You’re never just curious.”

Natasha wipes a smudge of dirt off his face, steadying her hand against his cheek for a long moment, studying him. Clint can’t read anything in the flicker of her eyes over his. “You really like this guy, don’t you?”

Clint remembers the small smirk of laughter that dances on Phil’s lips when he’s amused and the way he lets Clint sit in his office and fiddle with the settings on his quiver for hours without a complaint, and he nods.

“But can we trust him?” She presses.

“Fury trusts him.” Clint says, but knowing Natasha, that won‘t be enough. If anything, it would probably make her more suspicious, but there’s nothing Clint can say that will convince her otherwise. He can‘t find adequate words to express how sure he is of Phil. How in the short time that Clint’s gotten to know him, Phil’s become the most steadying presence in Clint’s life. “I trust him.”

“It’s not like you.”

Clint bites back the urge to snap that she hasn’t known him for a while now; Tasha didn‘t deserve that. He bends down and picks up a corner of the floor mat they were using, dragging it back to the corner. He says over his shoulder, “He’s a good agent. Competent.”

“He have you in on this thing that Fury wants done?” Natasha said, voice carrying across the gym, her tone making it clear she didn’t buy that Clint was in the dark about the investigation.

“No. Phil lets me hang out in his office.” Clint struggles to explain. “It’s been a tough year. Phil’s been there for a lot of the crappy times.”

“Like I haven’t been?” Natasha says evenly, without accusation.

Clint winces at the wall, giving the mat once last shove before facing her again. “I don’t mean like that, Tasha. You got called out. I get it. I’m a big boy. I don’t need you holding my hand.”

Natasha closes the distance between them, gathering up their bags. She holds on to the straps of his bag when he grabs them, forcing him to look up at her and cautions, “Be careful, Clint. Coulson may be SHIELD, but we don‘t know anything about him. Don‘t rush into anything.”

“Well, he did save my life.” Clint points out.

Natasha snorts. “I’ve saved your life.”

“Aww Natasha, you jealous?” Clint tries to ruffle her hair and gets his hand swatted away for the effort. He grins. “You know you‘ll always be my number one girl.”

She rolls her eyes and throws her wraps in his face, breaking into a smile when Clint ducks away, the loud barks of his laughter echoing throughout the room.

Afterwards, she drags him to the coffee shop. She says she misses the coffee, but Clint knows it means she misses him. Once there, Natasha orders his usual medium roast. For herself, she orders a latte that’s ridiculously sugary and chocolate-y and has about 3 more espresso shots than should be allowed, then smothers in all in whipped cream. Clint just shakes his head. That ridiculously high metabolism of hers shows up in some strange ways.

Back when they first started to work together, when both were still weary, still sharp around the edges, it was the coffee shop visits that started them talking. Sometimes they would sit around and make up stories about the other customers. Sometimes, Clint would pretend he was there on a date. That he was part of the 99.9 percent of the population that doesn’t have to worry daily about the collapse of civilization. Sometimes they would just sit, saying more with their presence than any words could.

For now they sit in the corner, side by side and close enough to be mistaken as lovers. Clint eyes her drink wearily, wondering if it’s possible to get diabetes from proximity. Natasha reads his sidelong look, scowling, and the nostalgia that hits him is almost a physical ache.  Clint misses this, misses Natasha like crazy and back here with her now, it feels like that distance has been washed away.

When they’re done, they take the long way back, wandering idly through the streets, people watching and brushing shoulder to shoulder as they walk. While slipping past the crowds, Natasha loops her arm around Clint’s, her hand resting on his forearm, and leans in, warming his skin even through the fabric of his shirt.


	5. Chapter 5

They get the call Sunday morning.

Clint dresses in the pre-dawn light, methodically stashing weapons about his person. He’s done this often enough that he knows not to rush. World threatening or not, the jet will take time to pack and prep for flight and equipment is slow to load. If he’s lucky, he can grab a coffee and a light breakfast before they head out.

Clint’s part is pretty straightforward. Phil had gone over it with him yesterday, grilling the blueprints over and over until Clint can see them whenever he closes his eyes. He spends the next hour prepping his equipment, checking it over, gathering supplies, clicking through the commands on his quiver, and sharpening his knives. Everything’s perfect, but the routine is as much for his equipment as it is for his pre-mission nerves.

The area is just as dry and dusty as Clint remembers.

Clint puts on sunglasses as soon as he disembarks the plane, but the midday sun is piercing, and the temperature hot enough to send waves of heat off the pavement and blurring the air.

Clint rolls his head from side to side, trying to release the tension that had sprung up as soon as they had entered the country, but it’s no use. He won’t relax until this mission is complete. He didn’t expect to be hit so hard by the memory of this place. Merely being back in this environment has set him on edge.

Already the telltale signs of a migraine are starting. He tries to hide his grimace, but Natasha gives him a knowing look as she passes, handing him a bottle of water before heading for the convoys.

Luckily they won’t be here long. Their mission is simple. While Strike Team Bravo creates a distraction, Natasha and Clint will infiltrate the compound, extract the hostages, and return them to base. The entire mission should be done within a few days, barring complications.

It’s a small crew, less than ten of them total. The stakes are raised because this mission is not government sanctioned. If they get caught, they’re on their own.

The camp is set up several miles out, but all the agents are taking turns scouting the compound. Clint spends the time not scouting or prepping laid out on his cot, a gel pack over his eyes, gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his head and trying not to think about the last time he was in this country.

“Barton” Coulson says, and Clint jerks up in surprise. He hadn’t heard him entering the tent.

“Sir?” Clint asks, swinging his legs over the side of the cot and wearily standing to his feet. Coulson looks tense and dead serious in a way that Clint has never seen from him before.

“Suit up.” Coulson orders, “I need you with me.”

As soon as Clint steps out of the tent, Coulson starts walking at a fast clip, casting an eye around for the position of the other agents.

Before Clint can ask what was going on, Coulson starting talking in a low urgent voice, “Three days ago, we intercepted a call from Assistant Director Hill to location in West Africa. The exact recipient is unknown, but the line was registered to a shell corporation. The analysts traced the corporation back to an organization that had moved a surprising large amount of money to an account in the Caymans two days after your last mission here.”

Clint sucked in a breath. “The second shooter.” The market place job. He knew it. He’d felt uneasy about the hit since the minute they gave it to him. The intel, the timing, it had been all wrong, but they went ahead with the hit regardless.

“No one knew we were supposed to be there. No one had any hint of a rival hit. Who was the senior officer on that trip? Who would have signed off on the mission?” Coulson presses. “And now one of the scouts have just come back. Since we’re landed, they’ve doubled the amount of security around the compound.”

“We have a leak.” Clint draws the conclusion easily enough.

Coulson nods briskly. “Looks like you were right about Hill.”

Clint doesn’t get any satisfaction from the confirmation.  Grimly, he asks. “How long has she been betraying SHIELD?”

“I’m not certain.  Possibly as far back as your kidnapping. I’ve read the files. You got pulled from a secure location, taken, and tortured. No one was supposed to know where you were stationed.” Coulson reasons.  They were rapidly approaching the command centre, and Clint could see Hill pacing under the shade of the open-air tent, a stack of papers in one hand and a phone in the other. “We don’t know how deep this goes, but we need to stop her before any more information gets sold.”

Hill is turned away, speaking over the satellite phone in clipped tones.  Clint steps ahead of Coulson, narrowing on his target.  As he closes in, he can see that she has the compound blueprints in her hand. Clint drops his left hand to his thigh holster. It’s loose in the holster; he hadn’t fastened it yet. He only had two bullets left. That would be enough.

Crossing the distance between them in two long strides, Clint grabs a hold of Hill. He has her disarmed within seconds and wraps an arm around her throat, pulling his gun and clicking the safety off. The phone clatters to the ground as she twists, trying to stomp on his instep and duck away, but Clint’s trained for this and his arm tightens around her throat until her breath comes in loud rasps.

He crushes the phone underneath his heel and demands, “Who were you talking to?”

“Barton? What the hell do you think you‘re doing?” Hill gasps out, her fingers digging crescent wounds into the flesh of his forearm, the blood dripping to the packed dirt at their feet.

“Who were you talking to?” Clint demands, barely resisting the urge to shake her like a terrier, “What were you telling them?”

“Barton, have you lost your mind?” Hill snarls, “You are attacking a superior officer. Lower your damn weapon.”

Clint laughed bitterly, “Don’t think so. He told me everything.”

“Told you what? You’d better have a damn good explanation for this.” Hill struggles violently in his grip, trying to turn around enough to see him.

“Clint!” Natasha shouts and Clint jerks the both of them around to face her, relieved to have back-up until he realizes her gun was drawn and trained in his direction. “Clint, what are you doing?”

“It’s Hill!” he tells her, “She’s the mole.”

“What mole? What are you talking about?” Natasha demands.

“Coulson’s investigation. The kidnapping. The marketplace. The guards around the compound.” Clint insists firmly, pressing his gun against Hill‘s temple, “If you go in, you‘ll die.”

Natasha shakes her head, “Clint, please, you’re not making any sense.”

“We’ve been compromised.” Clint yells at her.  He kicks Hill’s dropped blueprints towards Natasha, scattering them across the ground, “Can’t you see? Hill’s been feeding them information all along.”

“What information? Who’s them?” Natasha says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Them!” Clint shouts, lunging forward and almost taking Hill off her feet, “The people who took me!  She let them get me.”

Natasha backs away a quick steps, gun held steadily and says calmly, evenly, “Clint, I think you might be confused.  Put the gun down.”

“I swear if you don’t let me go, you’ll be lucky if I let you walk after this stunt.” Hill growls, trying to grapple around, reaching for any part of his body she can reach. Her hand catches Clint across the face and Clint tightens his grip, wrenching her head back until the angle of her neck makes it impossible for her to move.

“Don’t listen to them.” Coulson came into the shade of the tent.

Clint swivels his gaze to him, frantic. “Coulson?”

Natasha’s head snaps over to Coulson, eyes narrowing, but Coulson ignores her completely to focus on Clint, “Hill never wanted you in SHIELD in the first place, Barton. You had ruined her plans by coming back from the impossible.”

“She never wanted me here.” Clint repeats.  That’s right.  Agent Hill didn’t want Clint in SHIELD.  But Clint was a good agent.  He asks Coulson, “What do I do?”

Clint’s so caught up with Coulson that he misses the look Natasha exchanges a sharp look with Hill.

Abruptly, Natasha changes body language, straightening up as the threat drains out of her body. 

If anything, this change immediately puts Clint on edge.  “What’s going on?” he demands.

Natasha takes a step towards him and slowly moves her hands out in front of her with her gun laying sideways across her palm and pointed away, “Clint, listen to me.   Maria is not a threat. Whatever you think is happening is not true.  Can you put the gun down and talk about it?”

Clint frowns. It was so clear. Why couldn’t Natasha see what was going on.

“She’s lying.” Coulson says firmly, “She’s been compromised. Do not let her go.”

Clint shakes his head, silently pleading for Natasha to understand, “It’s all there. The rival hit. The shell corporation. She never wanted me here in the first place.”

“We‘ll investigate, I promise Clint.” Natasha keeps talking in a low tone, “Can you look at me, please?”

“Don’t you dare, Barton. It’s a trick. Eliminate the target before more people get hurt.” Coulson commands.

“Let Maria go, Clint. She‘s not the mole. Trust me, please.”

“She’s not?” Clint asks. He does trust Natasha, doesn‘t he? Natasha had never lied to him before.

Coulson snarls, “Don’t listen to her, Barton. She‘s a traitor.”

Clint swings his gaze between the two, confused, his head pounding and his gut churning with adrenaline. Coulson had all the evidence. He’d been investigating Hill for months, while Natasha had been out of town.

“Clint, don‘t do it!”

Clint feels like something is tightening around his chest and he gasps for breath, sweat breaking out over his skin.  Why were they so loud?  Why couldn’t they see the evidence in front of them?

“Barton, -”

“Clint, -”

“Shut up! Everyone shut up!” Clint yells, his hand coming up to press against the cacophony in his head, to ease the throbbing, searing pain and that’s all the break Hill needs.

She brings her elbow back sharply to catch him in the guts. When Clint doubles over, she swings out from underneath his arm and behind him, twisted his arm back and up. The force drives him to his knees, and Maria pulls her gun from the waistband of Clint’s uniform and whips him across the back of the head, knocking him out cleanly.

*

They leave Clint under until they hit stateside.

Agent Hill is on the phone most of the ride.  Natasha flies pilot in Clint’s place and stays silent.

The medics dose Clint with enough tranquilizer that he doesn’t stir the whole way back, not even when they pull him from the Quinjet’s cargo hold onto the waiting stretcher.  Natasha follows a few steps behind as they wheel his unresponsive body down to medical.  She’s stopped at the door but watches though the window until she can’t see him anymore. 

While Clint’s restrained to a bed waiting for him to regain consciousness, Natasha searches his room.

There isn‘t much. She combs through the tiny closet, around the bed, and even above the ceiling tiles, meticulously and thorough, but also unsure of what she’s even looking for. Clint’s always been a mess when it came to his living quarters, but it’s never carried over to his work, so Natasha’s always just ignored it in the past.

Now when she glances at the sheets of paper lying on his desk, she wishes she had paid closer attention. Upon closer examination, the papers turn out to be SHIELD official forms, but they’ve been written on all over.  There are dates and times, random words and half sentences scrawled across the page. Arrows pointing all over and dark scribbles drawn hard enough to go through the paper.

She starts to gather them together, trying to decode the scribbling. Maybe it was some sort of code. Maybe Clint was bored and doodling. She should have paid better attention to him. He might have dropped a hint during their last visit. She has to have missed something. Maybe a key to information he’d hidden away.  Something to make sense of all this mess.

Natasha searches his room again, this time with purpose.  It takes her no time at all to flip through his drawers and his desk - checking for false bottoms or papers taped underneath. She scatters the rest of his clothes across the floor, yanks the soles out of his shoes, and knocks trinkets from his bedside table, smashing them open to look inside.

Under the bed she finds his weapons, the most prized of all he owns, stored here instead of the weaponry and polished and checked every night.

She hauls them out and dumps them on his bed, pulling out his bow and takes a knife through the lining of the case.  She upends his quiver and clicks through every compartment she could see.

When she finishes, she sits heavily onto his torn bedspread and drops her head into her hands. 

There’s nothing.

Her next stop is the seventh floor. She doesn’t know what made her pause last week, watching the numbers on Clint’s elevator until they stopped, but she‘s glad she did. During her absence, Clint spent much of his time in Coulson’s office, but he’s never invited her along and she’s never had a reason to visit.

She doesn’t know the exact room number, but as the elevator doors open, she realizes she doesn‘t need it. Half of the floor is undergoing renovation and the rest is mostly empty; the rooms are relegated to storage and filing. The only sets of footprints on the dusty floor lead to and from a single door.

She knocks but no one answers, so she pushes the door open, watching the contents of the room slowly come into view.

*

Clint’s brain is trying to beat a hole through his head. He’s lying on something soft, which probably means Medical. Again.

After a few minutes, the pounding in his head subsides enough that Clint risks opening his eyes, blinking until Natasha comes into focus.

Natasha looks like she always does at the end of a mission when she’s running high on adrenaline fumes but two steps away from crashing. Her eyes are dark and shadowed.

She notices instantly that he’s awake, putting down his chart but not moving any closer. “How are you feeling?”

Clint mumbles unintelligibly, his mouth full of cotton, but he can’t find the effort to try again. Closing his eyes, he rolls his head around slowly, stretching the muscles of his neck. But when he pulls a hand up to rub at his shoulders, it’s stopped short. His eyes snap open. Both wrists are encased in padded restraints.

“Tasha… What’s going on?” he tries to search Natasha for answers, but it’s difficult to shake off his sleep and fully focus. His brow furrows, “What is this?”

“Do you remember what happened?” Natasha asks, her face a blank, unnervingly so.

He opens his mouth to answer, then pauses, frowning. Slowly he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “There was a mission… were we back in the desert?”

Natasha nods, encouragingly. “Who was there?”

“You, Coulson, May, Michaels, Hill.” He tugs again at the restraints, uneasy. “Why am I tied up?”

She rests her hand over his, gently but firmly pressing it back down to the mattress. She meets his gaze, expression intentionally set neutral, but her eyes give her away. She‘s scared, and Clint gets that feeling of dread coming in the pit of his stomach and trying desperately to remember what put that awful look on her face.

“Clint, I’m going to ask you a question. And it’s going to sound very bizarre, but I need you to trust me.” She waits until she gets a nod in return. “Who’s Coulson?”

The question is so absurd that Clint burst out with a laugh. But when Natasha doesn’t join in, Clint’s smile fades. He gives her an incredulous look, “You serious? Coulson, Phil Coulson? Our SHIELD handler Coulson? Badass level seven agent? Ringing any bells there?”

She shakes her head, “I’ve never met him before.”

Clint stares at her in disbelief, “Nat, he’s been the lead handler on probably more than half the missions you’ve been on for months now.”

“Clint, I’ve checked all the records. His name hasn’t appeared on a single mission report.” She says, “The only time I’ve ever heard about him is from you.”

“That’s insane. Don’t fuck with me, Tasha. I’m seriously not in the mood.” Clint says. When her expression doesn’t change, his heart rate starts to pick up and a cold sweat creeps over him. He tries to pull his legs up and fails, pulling up tight against restraints, “Tasha, get these cuffs off me. I don’t want to play games.”

“No games, Clint. I have never been more serious. Who’s Phil Coulson? Where is he?”

“I’ve already told you! You know who he is. He’s worked here for years. His office is on the 7th floor. I’ve been there. _You’ve_ been there.”

Her voice is even, and paced slowly, like she‘s explaining to a child. “Clint, that office is empty. No one’s been in there for years.”

When she’d entered, the first thing she noticed were the folders piled on the desk, spilling out forms covered with Clint’s scribbles. All half thoughts and words trailing off. Stationary laying around, half-filled cups of coffee, old boxes of mouldy take-out. There were two chairs facing each other across the desk, one recently used, and the other covered with a thick layer of dust. An old couch in the corner.

“It’s not true. He’s there. You just need to check.” Clint insists, heart pounding into his throat.

“Clint, I was just there. The room is empty. No one is there.” Natasha says.

The room starts to close in on him and Clint gasps for breath through an open mouth, trying to take in enough air. “It can’t be. What have you done to him?”

“No one’s done anything to him. There is no one named Coulson who works for SHIELD. We checked all our records through Fury. Phil Coulson does not exist.”

Black dots start to appear in front of his eyes, and Clint shakes his head vehemently, “You’re wrong.”

“No, Clint. Phil is not real.”

“You’re lying!” Clint roars, and strains hard at the cuffs holding his hands down.

She shakes her head again and again, red hair tumbling across her face. “I would never do that to you.”

Clint snarls, the words snapping out in accusation, “I don’t believe you. Where’s Phil? What have you done with him?”

Distantly, she hears the monitor on the side pick up in warning, “Clint, calm down. No one’s done anything to him.”

“Stop lying to me!” He screams, face twisted in rage. He lunges for her, but is stopped short by the restraints, and when he can’t yank out of them, Clint starts ripping at them with his teeth.

Natasha tries to pull him away, pin him back down to the bed, but Clint bucks violently under her hands, screaming for Phil. The noise brings the medical staff running. Clint wrenches away from their touch, his body pumping out adrenaline out so sharply, he can feel a stabbing throb in his abdomen. He strikes out with his arms and legs, aiming for anything he can reach.

When the staff manage to pin his limbs down, Clint attacks them with his teeth, catching one nurse hard enough to bleed. The blood spatter catches him across the face as he screams obscenities, his teeth bared and feral.

Natasha’s been backed into the corner by the suddenly influx of staff. Her mind racing through all their interactions these past months, trying to remember all the times Clint talked about Phil.

Finally, the staff immobilize Clint long enough to stick him with a hypo full of haldol, and he fades slowly as the medication courses through his body, egged on by the rapid pounding of his heart. He falls back to the bed, head tipped towards her. His eyes find her unerringly, accusing and betrayed.

She matches his gaze until his eyes slide shut, fingernails digging into her palm hard enough to bleed, and a fear like burning wrapping around her heart.


	6. Chapter 6

They diagnose him with paranoid schizophrenia.

Back when Clint was younger, he rotated through a series of foster homes. He was at the age most considered too old to adopt and his temperament made him too troublesome to keep long. Consequently every few months, he’d watch as family after family packed his belongings and shuttled him to the next placement.

Even at 6, each placement was an elaborate game of tests and illusions. Were their smiles really truthful, was this toy really his. Was the family really as nice as they seemed, or was there secrets lurking underneath the surface? Did they really mean he could stay, or were they just poised, waiting for the moment he screwed up and the rug got yanked out from under him again?

Now at 25, long past the time when he thought himself too old for games, Clint abruptly finds the carpet yanked out from under him, and try as he might, there’s no secure footing to be found.

Based on his hallucinations alone, Clint’s diagnosis is conclusive. Most schizophrenics experience solely auditory hallucinations, however Clint apparently doesn’t do anything by halves. Phil Coulson was as alive and tangible to him as any person he has ever met, perhaps even more so.

Immediately and with no input on his behalf, he is started on zuclopenthixol to get rid of the worst of his positive symptoms. The depot shot was injected even before he had regained consciousness the first time. The dose was increased after his encounter with Natasha.

Clint loses days in a foggy haze. There’s a string of people who come through his room in that time. Physicians, nurses, psychiatric staff. Clint thinks maybe he even saw Fury at some point, maybe even Agent Hill, but it’s all a jumble of light and noise. He can barely respond when people come talk to him; the layers upon layers of drowsiness are suffocating and unyielding.

His medication is switched once he’s over the worse of his delusions, and while the drowsiness has lifted, Risperidal Consta gives him the shakes until he can’t hold a glass straight, let alone his bow. Privately, Clint thinks it’s hilarious that even though he’s crazy, SHIELD still wants him to kill people for them. Their standards must be getting pretty low.

His psychiatrist likes to tell him that Phil isn’t real and wants to discuss all the things that Phil represented and why he manifested and why Clint is all sorts of crazy.  When Clint can’t agree, he increases his dose.

The depression sets in hard. He’s pulled from active status until he gets cleared from Psych, but Clint doesn’t care anymore. It’s hard to find the energy to care about anything these days. Most days he can’t even get himself out of bed.

He’s ordered to go to counselling three times a week, and spends most of the time just like today, ignoring the doctor until the hour is up.  Clint slouches as low in the chair as he can get away with, arms crossed in front of his chest.

However, his psychiatrist is persistent, Clint will give him that.  Forty minutes in and he’s still asking questions like Clint’s going to spill his guts at any moment.

The doctors don’t understand how much Phil meant to him. Like telling him that he’s a delusion is supposed to make things better. Like it’ll make Clint love him less and miss him less.

“Are you still experiencing hallucinations?”  Dr. Strandberg asks, watching Clint carefully from behind his desk. 

Clint’s eyes flicker to the corner where Phil is sitting patiently and then back to the doctor. 

That maddening hint of a smile crosses Phil’s face, “Clint.” Phil admonishes lightly. “Why do you keep humouring him?  You know it’s not nice.”

Clint shakes his head mutely.

The doctor follows Clint’s eyes, “Are you seeing him right now?  Can you tell me about Phil?”

Clint shakes his head again, staring past the doctor to the wall behind him.  Clint has never been much of a talker, but now he finds the words can’t even form, all gathered up at the edge then stopped dead on the precipice. They lock up tight in his throat and when they do come out, they come out all jumbled and wrong.

Clint wants to tell them how Phil was the best thing in his life. That Phil knew him like no one else did, and that Phil cared about him, and that Phil loved him. 

He also wants to tell them how Phil keeps telling him what they doctors are doing is wrong, but sometimes Clint doesn’t know who to believe. 

Dr. Strandberg tries again, “Did you go to the range today?”

Clint shrugs.

“The exercise would be good for you.”  His doctor continues, “Have you used your bow?”

Some days Clint can’t even do that, stuck in bed and encased in stone. He can’t pick up his bow, can’t remember what made him love it in the first place.

Phil makes a disapproving noise.  “I trained you better than this, Barton.”

Dr. Strandberg sighs and writes on his notepad.  Clint knows what he’s writing. Natasha researched every medical journal she could get her hands on after his diagnosis.  Alogia. Anhedonia. Avolition, Clint recites and the syllables are all mixed up in his head, but he knows what they mean.  Increase his dosage.

Finally, they trial him on Clozaril and that seems to be the lesser of all evils, despite the weekly blood tests needed for this medication. He starts the pills while Phil watches on betrayed.

Every day, Clint makes the walk down to the Medical.  And every day, Phil makes the walk beside him. 

“Why are you still taking their medication? You know they’re making you sick.”

Clint stares straight ahead as he walks, “Please go away, Phil.”

“Why would I do that?  You need me, Clint.  Remember, we’re a team.”

Clint shakes his head.  He reaches the counter where the nurse already has everything prepped.  Light yellow pills lined up in a row.  All Clint has to do is swallow them down and open his mouth for the nurse to see, then he can go back to bed and huddle under the covers until the next day.

Phil stops beside him and touches a hand to his arm, “They’re poisoning you, Clint.  You haven’t felt well since they started you on all this medication.  I’ll make it better.  You know I always make things better.” His voice rose as he became increasingly agitated. 

“Agent Barton?”  The nurse asks tentatively, giving him a concerned look.  Clint presses his lips together and reached for the medication.  Beside him, Phil is getting more and more agitated. 

“Clint, I have always done what’s best for you.  Why won’t you listen to me?!” Phil yells and Clint flees, trying to get away as fast as he can without knocking anyone over in the corridors. 

Eventually Phil fades away.  His face, his touch, the quiet timber of his voice. 

This is good, they tell him.  This is excellent.

This is what Clint wants.

He can still hear the whispers from other agents. Sidelong glances in the hallways. Hushed conversations in his wake.  Clint Barton.  He was a good agent once.  But then they took him and they beat him and they could never put him back together again. 

*

Clint can’t sleep. It’s no different from any other night. He’s drowsy as hell from the medications, but he can’t sleep.

His psychiatrist prescribes him sleeping pills for when this happened, but they leave a terrible taste in Clint’s mouth. However tonight, he’s nearing the point of desperation and almost gives in when Natasha shows up at his quarters.

He half-heartedly protests before getting out of bed and letting her force a hoodie over his head and lead him to the roof. It’s been ages since they’d been up here together. Not since before, well before everything.

Clint watches her silently as she bypasses all the security protocols and pushes open the door.  The first rush of night air streams past them down the stairwell and he pauses, halfway through the doorway. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about this, Tasha.”

“It’s ok.” She says. She holds up a bottle and smirks, “We can just drink. Like old times.”

Clint breathes in the cold crispness in the night air and shivers, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. He hasn’t been out on the roof for far too long.  Natasha raises an eyebrow at him, and he shakes his head, “I’m pretty sure the doctors would have your head if they knew we were up here with alcohol.”

“Who said anything about alcohol?” Natasha tilts the bottle to the light so that Clint can read the label. It’s sparkling grape juice.

He furrows his brow, “You serious?”

She cracks the seal and takes a swig, wincing and holding out the bottle to him. “Let it never be said I don’t make sacrifices for you.”

Silently, he takes the proffered bottle and drinks.

They settle on the concrete ledge, legs drawn up and half sheltered from the wind by the door. Any stars have been drowned out by the city lights, but the view was still good. Down below, the traffic sounds drift up, millions of people going about their lives while Clint’s quietly crashes down around him.

He’s been discharged off the locked ward and allowed back to his quarters, but in the mornings he’s still required to check in with the nurse and have them witness his medication dose. The rest of the hours of the morning are taken up with appointments and counselling but then again, it’s not like he has anything pressing to get to.

He doesn’t even feel angry anymore. He’s used up all the angry he had this past year. All that’s left is a dead weight like the walls have fallen in and he can’t do anything but stand frozen in place. Like everything is coming dampened and muffled.

“You know, this grape stuff is growing on me.” Natasha voice cuts through his train of thought. She takes another swig and waggles the bottle at him.

Clint, his head dropped down on his bent knees, shakes his head. “I guess that’s how they get you. Throw you the fake stuff until you can’t tell what’s real anymore.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, Tasha I’m a mess.”

“No Clint, you’re sick.” Natasha responds, “Just like if you had a cold.”

Clint sighs but didn’t say anything, staring out into the city, watching the blinking lights. Sitting there, hunched against the chill of the wind, Clint looks younger than his years.

“It was the warehouse.” Clint says, soft enough that Natasha would not have heard him over the winds had he not been right beside her.

Natasha raises an eyebrow

“The doctors keep calling it a brief psychotic break, he was so real. In that warehouse, he was the only thing that kept me going. I would have died there without him.”

“Clint, he’s not real.” Natasha insists.

“I know that.” Clint said, irritated. “But it’s like he was there. I could hear him, see him. I knew stuff about his past. I would have sworn up and down there was no way he could have been a hallucination.”

They pass the bottle between the two of them, sitting in the near dark, shivering from the winds. It’s nothing they have done a dozen times before, post mission, pre mission, for no reason at all, but it feels different this time, tentative and unknown like something fragile is hanging between them.

Clint sighs, “I’m having kind of a crappy day.” Clint admits, trying for a light-hearted tone. He doesn’t have a hope in hell of fooling Natasha.

“I know.” She replies, setting the bottle down on the concrete. Resting her palm on his thigh, she gives it a light squeeze.

Clint tries to smile at her, a quick rise and fall of his lips. It‘s not very convincing, “Actually, it’s been a pretty craptastic year.”

“I know.” She repeats, softer this time, and she wraps her arms around him, laying his head against her shoulder. “We can get through this.  Sometimes all it takes is a little help.”

Clint’s never asked for help in his life. Not when he was getting beaten by an abusive father, not when he was starving in the circus and worked to the bone, not when he was homeless and drifting, not when he finally hit rock bottom. But this thing looming over his, this disease, is like staring up from the bottom of a well and realizing all the walls are made of glass shards and stone. It’s like seeing the light miles away and not knowing if he even wants to go there, and suffer all the trials in between.

As if she could see the racing thoughts through his head, Natasha presses a kiss to his forehead, lips warm and dry. “Things will get better.”

Clint wants to demand when. When will things get better? He wants Natasha to fix things. He wants to go back to the way they were. He wants to demand when everything will make sense again, but Natasha runs gentle finger through his hair and Clint only nods, silent and heavy at her side.

“Phil‘s not real. I get it. He‘s a figment of my imagination brought on by the stress of the situation or whatever the hell they keep trying to feed into me, but..” Clint studiously avoids Natasha’s gaze and shrugs a shoulder down at the concrete, “I miss him.”

“No. You are not going down that road. Phil Coulson does not, nor did he ever, exist.”

Clint‘s face crumples. “But how do I know?”

Natasha grasped the bottom of Clint‘s chin and tilted his head to face her. She pulled him in close, until their foreheads touched, until they were breathing in each other’s spaces and Clint could see every emotion in Natasha’s eyes. “Trust me, Clint.” she says fiercely, no louder than a whisper, “Trust me. You know I’ll never lead you wrong.”

*

Clint hasn’t seen Phil since his discharge from the hospital, and Nat’s confirmed that everyone he talks to is actually there. Things are finally starting to feel normal for him again. The last few weeks have been super crappy, sitting around and not having anything to do or to be able to burn off energy with.

A few weeks later, after Clint’s run a battery of psych tests, he’s finally cleared for active duty. He’s been busted back down to fluff missions and junior agent status. Apparently when you’re crazy, you can’t be trusted with SHIELD secrets.

He pretends like he doesn’t know that Command sending him on milk runs and they pretend like they trust him again, so it’s satisfying all around. Although, it doesn’t surprise him that there’s a different S.O. assigned to his missions. On the advice of his psychiatrist, they’ve kept Hill clear of him whenever possible.

A few months down the line, Clint’s feeling better.  The first time he feels like he genuinely smiles again is while watching Natasha systematically tear down the SciTech team’s mission plan. The first time he laughs again, it’s just some half hour sitcom playing in the break room, and no one else is in the room, but he surprises himself by how easy it felt.   

The higher ups have finally stopped watching him out of the corner of their eyes, like they waiting for him to ambush them or start talking to a wall. He thinks maybe he would have done that, just to get a rise out of them a few months ago, but these days, he’s learned to stay under the radar. These days, he feels like a different person.

This current mission, he’s been in his nest for eight hours and his handler’s a dick who won’t let him down until the target is dead, unlike Phil, who would have at least chatted with him while they waited and let him take a break.

No, Clint reminds himself, Phil was not real. Phil was never here.

Dr. Strandberg tells Clint during their sessions that he has to remind himself there are things that aren’t real. That he has to be critical of his surroundings.

Hour sixteen, and he’s gone through all his rations long ago, and the stakeout’s already run overtime, and Clint’s starting to get low blood sugar, and shaky. He peeks through the scope again, wishing fervently that this could be done and he could get some water and maybe his head would stop hurting and his right leg’s gone numb and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stand on it, and if he could just stretch out his aching limbs, and -

“Specialist, I can practically hear your mind wandering off.”

Clint startles. He bites back a reply hard, teeth clamped together tight enough to send an ache down his jaw. _Do not engage the hallucinations, Agent Barton. You’ll be feeding into a cycle positive reinforcement._

“Come on Barton.” Coulson says, “Talk to me.”

_Once we find the right dosage of medication, these positive symptoms should subside._

He shakes his head and swallows hard against the urge to answer. “It’s not real.” He whispers to himself.

“Agent Barton, you are bordering on insubordination. I need an update, and I needed it yesterday.”

“No.” _Do not engage_. Clint resists the urge to put his hands over his ears like a child. “Go away.”

“Now, Barton!” Coulson snarls and Clint rips the comm from his ear. He throws it to the ground, eyes wide and rolling as he fights to keep calm.

He breaths deep and steady, just like his psychiatrist recommended. “He is not really there. You are hallucinating. He is not real.” He repeats the mantra to himself as he stares down the scope.

Later, he gets a dressing down and then a written reprimand for taking his comm out, but the rest of his shift passed blissfully quiet, so Clint figures it was a fair trade-off. When they ask him why, he tells them that he took it off to scratch his ear and forgot to put it back in. That gets him some skeptical looks, but they leave it well enough alone.

*

The next day it rains.

When it rains, the bones in his hands ache and throb until he can barely hold a draw. He hates that they took this away from him and refuses to let it defeat him, purposefully practicing on rainy days until he can push the pain away, locking it in the back of his mind.

Those nights, he finishes and heads straight to his quarters after, and sits in the dark, holding his hands in tight to his body, clenched white knuckled to starve off the pain, and trying not to think about the sound they made when they were broken, like the snap of the fresh sugar peas that Hill likes to eat on the bridge.

When it used to get like this, Clint used to sneak up to the seventh floor and spend the next day in Coulson’s office. Phil would quietly shift through his mission reports in the background while Clint curled on the couch.

But Phil isn’t real and Phil isn’t there for him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you remember to read the tags? Thanks!

Dawn comes slowly and Clint watches half-awake and sore as the sun creeps up the wall opposite his bed.

Morning training is grueling, especially with Clint still trying to adjust to the humidity change. His fingers are especially stiff and the repetitive movement isn’t helping much.

The next day, he gets called out on a mission, simple, watching an operative’s back as he conducted a meet with a supplier. Nothing’s expected to happen and nothing does. With the winter coming, Clint bulked up on layers, but it’s still not enough to prevent the cold from seeping in as he lay hidden on the roof next to the meet.

Afterwards, they pack him up alongside the gear and fly him home to wait for the next time SHIELD needs their pet sniper.

The mission following is much the same and Clint stares down the barrel of his rifle, distantly watching as people went about their day.

He takes two ibuprofen after they wrap up the site and lies down in the cargo hold, ignoring the chatter of the agents around him. 

Clint walks back into his quarters, throws his bags onto the floor and strips off the rest of his uniform. He makes himself a bowl of stale cereal and eats it dry. Then he washes it down with a few gulps of bottled water before flopping face first down on the bedspread.

Sometime later, he jerks awake, having drifted off at the table. The headache is still there and its dull throbbing ache makes him feel fuzzy and slow, like the whole room is muted.

When he glances at the desk clock, Clint stills.

Phil is perched on the edge of his desk.

Leaning casually with his arms folded across his chest, he‘s been studying Clint. Slowly, Clint takes in the crisp suit, the charcoal shirt underneath, the way his dark striped tie held back with a silver tie clip slipped between the second and third button. Phil doesn’t move an inch as Clint completed his evaluation, stock still with the hint of a smile playing across his face.

“You’re not real.” The loudness of his voice, stark in the small room even startles Clint himself. He licks his lips and says again, softer, “You’re not really there.”

The corner of Phil‘s mouth twitches up, “You’re talking to me, are you not?”

“Yeah,” Clint says haltingly, wondering if he should be getting into an argument with the supposed hallucination. His psychiatrist tells him to ignore Phil. That he’ll eventually go away “You’re a hallucination brought on by the high stresses of the job.” he recites.

Phil laughs out loud, a short, sharp bark that cuts through the air, “How long did it take them to convince you of that?”

“No convincing.  You’re not real.” Clint insists.

Phil pushes off the desk while Clint eyes him carefully. He watches as Phil runs his hands over the desk and the back of the chair and as he slides across the floors and dodges around his clothes before he comes to a full stop in front of Clint. He leans forward, one hand on Clint’s thigh for balance, and the other coming up to caresses his cheek.

Guiltily, Clint leans into the touch. “Phil...”

If Clint takes a breath, he could smell the spicy scent of his aftershave.  Phil smiles and leans in until his lips are just brushing past the curve of Clint‘s ear, his breath a warm tickle on his skin.  “I’ve missed you.”

Phil’s hand cards through his hair, and Clint feels the press of his lips against the crown of his head. Clint takes a sharp breath, turning his head away. “You’re not real. Natasha says--”

“Do you trust Natasha?” Phil interrupts mildly, his fingers coming down around the shell of his ear. The ghost of his breath against Clint‘s skin, causing him to shiver violently. “She would never betray you.”

Natasha wouldn‘t. Clint knows that, but having Phil here makes things so unclear and he feels the need to reaffirm. “Never.” he says, “Natasha is the closest thing I have to a family.”

Shrugging, Phil replies, “You and I both know that doesn’t mean anything. Barney was your brother. And he betrayed you.”

Clint’s mouth goes dry. Clint didn’t think about Barney, not ever if he can help it. He doesn’t think of the way he and Barney used to hide away amongst the leaves of the tree next to their trailer. Or how Barney talked the circus into taking them in, gesturing with one hand, while the other was circled tightly around Clint’s sweaty little palm. How Clint couldn’t raise his hands against him. And how the dirt scuffed around Barney’s shoes and the rocks scattered in his wake as Barney walked away.

Clint shakes his head, willing the images to go away. “No, it’s not the same. Natasha loves me. She would never lie to me.”

“Oh, Clint. My poor, delusional Clint.” Phil leans in closer now, a slow predatory invasion into Clint’s space. He places his hands on either side of Clint, sliding them up the bedspread, and leans in close enough that Clint can make out the tiny wrinkles that spider out from the corners of his eyes.

“Nobody loved you.” Coulson sneers and Clint recoils as though he’d been hit. “You were thrown out by every person who came close to you. No one could stand to be around you. Your father used you like a punching bag, and your momma didn’t give a shit. Your brother sold you to the highest bidder. SHIELD was on their way to doing the same until I fixed you.”

Clint shakes his head vehemently. “No. I’ll get better. I’m a good agent.” He protests weakly.

“They’re lying to you. Haven’t you noticed? Ever since you started taking their medicine, you can’t concentrate, you can’t shoot, and you can barely stay awake.”

“It’s not true.” But he’s hesitant, mind whirling around the accusations.

Coulson eyes glow triumphantly, his grin sinister, “They just can’t stand it. They can’t stand that it was me you needed. They’re making you sick Clint. They’re telling you lies.”

Clint’s heart rate jumps. When he speaks, his voice sounds tiny and weak and Clint hates it. “It’s not true. I’m already sick. There‘s something wrong with me. You’re not here. Tasha would never lie.”

Coulson scoffs, “She’s poisoning you. All those pills, all those drugs are just going to kill you. Fury never wanted you around. Hill never wanted you around. You know how hard she fought against taking you on. You’ve been a dead weight to Natasha for years.  She couldn’t wait to be free of you and now she‘s just taking her chance. They’re all waiting for you to screw up and you’re gone.”

Clint claps his hands over his ears. “They’re not. I’m a good agent. I’m a good sniper.” Clint cowers, scooting back in the bed until he hit’s the far wall, sobbing. “Go away.” he cries, knees drawn up and curled in on himself.

“You’re nothing.” Coulson roars.

“It’s not true.” Clint moans, “I‘m a good agent.” Coulson pushes off the bed, and walks around slowly as Clint continues his mantra, eyes shut and hands pressed tightly over his ears.

The sneer curls around Coulson‘s mouth, distorting it his face, twisting it into something Clint can‘t recognize. “You were never anything without me.”

*

That night, Phil climbs into bed with Clint and whispers to him as he cries.

He smooths back Clint’s sweat-soaked hair, fingers scrapping lightly along his scalp. Rubs his back as he catches hitching breaths.

“I’m so sorry.” he says softly whispering into his hair. Phil brushes the tears out from under Clint’s eyes, the pads of his thumb rough against his skin.  His apologies gentle and low as he steadies Clint’s trembling hands. “You know I didn’t mean it.”

And Clint buries his face into his neck, snuffling into the soft skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He hiccups slightly while Phil shushes him and pats his back.

Phil presses kisses to his neck and whispers that he loves him. He’d only wanted to help him. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re not real.” Clint breathes into Phil’s skin.

Phil looks down at him fondly, “Oh Clint. They’ve been telling you lies.”

Phil caresses a hand against Clint’s cheek and it’s warm and firm and burns a line of fire everywhere it touches. “Is this not real?” He presses his lips to his neck, “Or this?”

Clint bites his lip, shudders against Phil’s touch. “I.. I don’t-”

“Shh.” Phil catches Clint’s eye and he can‘t break his gaze away. “Trust me. You know I’ll never lead you wrong.”

Phil’s hands start smoothing his skin, kneading softly into his muscles as he works his way down. Gently, he eases Clint’s boxers down over his hips. Clint’s already half hard by the time he palms a warm, dry hand against him. Phil licks the salty tears from his cheeks, tongue rough against his skin.

“Phil.” Clint chokes out brokenly, leaning up into Phil’s touch, “Please.. I..”

Phil silences him with a kiss. “Let me help you.”

Phil swipes a finger over the head of Clint’s penis and smears the fluid down the length of his cock, then bends over to add saliva when that’s not enough.

Clint bites back a moan, bottom lip firmly in between his teeth in an effort to keep quiet until Phil back away, lips swollen and slick with spit.

With both hands, Phil spreads Clint’s legs apart, firm warm hands spanning across the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He fits himself in the space in between, running his hands up and down Clint’s legs, warm, and soft, and solid.

Phil leans into Clint, kissing him until Clint has to pull away, gasping wetly against Phil’s skin as he closes his hand around his cock. Phil works him slowly, long steady slides until Clint is writhing and aching against the covers.

He whispers Clint name, and captures Clint’s moans with his lips, tugging, licking, biting the words away. He pushes him into the headboard with a palm pressed firmly over his heart and deepens their kiss until Clint is panting for air.

Phil gives one final twist of his wrist, the pressure now almost punishing hard, and sends Clint crashing over the edge. Clint snaps his head back, cords running taut down his neck and Phil’s name wrenched from his lips as he comes.

*

In the morning, Clint jerks awake to the sight of an empty bed. His skin is cool and tacky with sweat, the sheets in a tangle around his legs. The room is quiet, near silent except the sound of his breaths.

He stumbles into the shower, stepping into the spray before it’s fully warm and stands shaking under the running water. Eventually the water warms enough to soothe away the goose bumps down his arms, but he can’t stop feeling cold inside, deep enough that nothing seems to penetrate.

He can feel phantom hands on his shoulders, running down the broad planes of his deltoids, sliding down his arms, grasping at his hips. His skin tingles and burns cold in their wake. He shivers.

Clint stays under the water until the entire bathroom is thick with steam, fogging the mirrors until he can’t see himself in them, can only see the faint outline of a person. For a second he thinks he sees the outline of someone standing next to him, and he jerks his head to the side, but there’s no one is there.

As he brushes his teeth, he eyes the pill bottle sitting next to his toothbrush holder. The tablets were a strange shape. Yellow and round, and so deeply scored that the sides sloped down towards the middle, two halves tumbling down to meet.

Clint picks up the tablet, pinched between forefinger and thumb and brings it in close, examining the tiny letters stamped on the flat side. It doesn’t look like anything special.

*

“Morning.” Natasha greets him as he settles into the quinjet. She hands over a cup of coffee and goes back to work. She‘s checking over her equipment casually as she speaks, but Clint knows she‘s not missing anything in his stance or expression. “You look a little rough today. Tough night?”

“Nah.” Clint replies, as he stores his arrows in preparation for flight. He’s taken to wearing a quiver on his back and one strapped to his thigh, which instantly doubled his ammunition stores, but means there‘s twice as much fiddling around to do before a mission. “I’m still waking up, I guess. Things are good.”

“You didn’t answer my calls last night.” She leans across the space between them, face earnest. “I was worried about you.”

Clint shrugs, “I went to bed kind of early.”

“That’s not like you.”

Clint doesn’t meet her eyes. “I didn’t feel like staying up.”

Natasha narrows her eyes, “Did something happen last night? Did he come back?”

“No,” Clint says. He finishes packing his gear and sits down, the seat closest to the door, feels the brush of a hand against his thigh, the whisper of words in his ear, the caress of fingertips against his jaw and he shakes his head. “No, Nat, he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr [peppermintwhisp](http://peppermintwhisp.tumblr.com)
> 
> This fic was started July 2012 and has haunted me ever since. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments along the way, I couldn't have done it without your motivation!
> 
> Thanks again to the lovely Westgate, who was helpful, and supportive, and indulged me when I was freaking out.


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